


In Cavern's Shade

by Castile181



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 503,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castile181/pseuds/Castile181
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the first age, when Beleriand itself stands on the brink of destruction and Doriath falls from the height of glory to begin its long decline, Celeborn, a Sindarin prince as quick to wisdom as he is to anger, meets Artanis, a Noldorin princess plagued by a dark secret, and, amidst a budding romance, they soon find themselves plunged into a world of intrigue, lies, and mystery as ties grow turbulent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bitter Expanse

 

  
**The Bitter Expanse**

In Cavern's Shade: 1st Chapter

 

Fanart by [Tosquinha.](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)

 

*****

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."

_– The Great Gatsby_

*****

**Author's Note:** Hey all, this story is divided into three parts. Part I is chapters 1-13, Part II is chapters 14-26, and Part III is chapters 27-39. Chapter 40 is an epilogue. I am planning on writing a sequel.

Thank you for reading! This story starts as the Noldor come to Middle earth and will run through the end of the first age.

Please note that all of the Noldor in the first few chapters are still using their Quenya names since they do not yet know Sindarin. The Quenya names stop in the 4th chapter. So Galadriel is Artanis, etc. Also, the Sindar are still calling Morgoth by his Sindarin name, Bauglir, at this point since they have not yet met the Noldor.

Please bear in mind that, to an extent, none of the characters are reliable narrators. They all see things through the lens of their own perception. It is up to you, the reader, to try to discern what is really happening. Questions and comments are very much appreciated! Happy reading.

 

*****

This barren ice was as cold as it was wild, as beautiful as it was desolate, an endless mirror stretching into oblivion, a coffin of the purest glass. From the snow the mountains rose cold and unforgiving, sharp peaks of clearest ice glowing with an ethereal blue light from deep within. It was a world heretofore unknown, crossed only by the Valar and Ungoliant.

At night they mourned those who had perished by falling snow and the great cracking of the sea of ice. In their dreams they realized the crippling but unspoken fear that tomorrow they might be the mourned rather than the mourners and, for the first time, the very real fear of what had once been incomprehensible death enveloped them in her icy mantle. Night after night Turgon had sat by the fire, inconsolable; at times he was silent while at others he wept outright yet always in his eyes was the look of one haunted by the unshakeable specter of guilt for those he could not save, for Elenwe, gone into the murky black grave.

The traitorous ice had cracked beneath her feet and she had plummeted to the freezing water below, her fingernails grasping frantically, uselessly at the lip of ice while Turgon bolted to her like an arrow loosed from a bow. But by the time he reached the spot where she had fallen, the ice had shifted and covered her. Then Turgon had taken his sword from its sheath and, in a desperate attempt to save his wife’s life, hacked away at the ice while she clawed desperately at the underside of it. Yet it was of little use and gradually the bubbles of air that had escaped her mouth slowed, then stopped. By the time the others had reached them she had been still and frozen, her eyes open in death, her face already purpling. It had been a sight terrible to behold, the most recent in a seemingly endless concatenation of horrors, and despite their best efforts they had been unable to retrieve her body.

The sound rebounded off of the mountains like thunder, a great booming in the depths of the ice that stopped them all in their tracks, and a crack as sharp and loud as that of a great tree being seared by a white-hot bolt of lightening. She felt a lurch beneath her feet and then she was sliding on her stomach, spread eagled, over the ice. Her head hit hard and immediately a sharp painful throbbing started between her eyes and at the base of her skull. Her mouth, which had opened to allow for the natural impulse of a scream was quickly filled with the water and snow that made up the layer of film covering the ice. She had bitten her tongue. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth and she coughed up bloody snow. Her eyelashes were dusted with cold fresh powder.

Her arms flew out as she made to stop her desperate slide across the ice and she dug in her fingernails, which made an awful screech, like rusted metal, small balls of ice and snow accumulating beneath them as she worked to slow her mad glide. She could feel her stomach lurching with fear and adrenaline and the image of Elenwe’s frozen purple face beneath the ice, staring up at them with dead accusatory eyes flashed through her mind. If she could not stop herself she would most certainly die. Death: a word she had long known but only recently come to understand. The cold sent shivers through her spine, which twitched involuntarily at the sensation. She felt the delicate skin of her fingertips separate from her nails and then the nails themselves tear like paper, a fresh pain racked her entire body as she slammed into the ungentle arms of an outcropping of ice. At the impact it felt as if cold knives had been plunged into her spine. Yet, she had stopped; she was alive.

A lesser woman, or one without such strong resolve or sense of duty, might have lain there until the others came to pull her to her feet and offer to let her ride on a sled, but she was not like that and so, waving away the frantically helpful hands of those who had rushed to her aid, she stood, with great pain and a great struggle, though she showed it not. Her heart was still hammering within her chest and her eyes were brimming with tears so she refrained from raising her head, lest she betray her true emotions and quickly brushed snow off of her cape, noticing that pools of blood were forming under her nails where the skin had torn. Her hands were cracked from the dry air and the cold. How very cold it must be, to have even such an effect on elves. Quickly, so that no one would see, she wrapped her bleeding hand in the folds of her cape and pulled it tight around her.

She was Artanis. She was Nerwen. She was the daughter of Finarfin. She was a princess of the Noldor. She lifted her aching head and straightened her back. For her people she knew she must go on. She had to be an inspiration to them in this trial, to remind them of their greatness, to remind them that they would prevail. They looked to her for strength and it was her duty and privilege to give strength to them. As her eager helpers faded back into the group of elves, she walked steadily to her brother Findaráto who was leading the group of Noldor at Fingolfin's side. Coming to march beside him she gathered her thin cloak about her forearms once more, for it had been slipping in the blustering winds, and wrapped it around her gown, though it did her little good, soaked from her slide as it was. The cloak, like the rest of her clothes, was far too thin. They had been unprepared but, then again, they had never expected to cross the Helcaraxe, never expected Feanor to do what he had done. Artanis clenched her eyes shut momentarily, willing those memories away before the dark thoughts could overtake her.

“Artanis, are you well?” Findaráto whispered anxiously, lightly touching her arm with his hand, his kind black eyes searching for pain in her blue ones. Though her oldest brother was her most loyal and beloved confidant, she was rattled and did not wish him to see her upset as he would worry over her incessantly. Pulling her hood over her head, she turned away.

“Nothing I cannot handle, thank you brother.” Nerwen replied, keeping her head down. Her mouth was still pooling with blood and she was forced to swallow it, wishing most ardently that her tongue would stop its bleeding. She heard Findaráto sigh at her left side. He knew she was in pain but he wouldn’t pursue the issue, knowing better than to baby his willful sister, and instead turned to speak to the young elf woman walking on his other side, Wilwarin, who had been given extra cloaks because she was with child. Perhaps, thought Artanis, Wilwarin should have stayed in Aman, but she had refused to be separated from her husband, who traveled with Findaráto’s host, even though she knew it would be especially hard for her. And, after all, who among them could have predicted this? Even she, cursed with foresight, had not. What further horrors lay ahead?

Artanis pulled her threadbare cloak around her more tightly. She didn’t shiver anymore, though she had at first. She was used to the cold now; it had numbed her body and senses into acceptance. She would finish this long march. She had embarked on it and she would finish it, be it in death, as Turgon’s wife had, or in the reaching of safety in Endor.

Though, if the rumors she had heard were true, it was inhabited only by the Moriquendi who were mostly savage, hardly safe to be around. Findaráto had high hopes of seeking shelter with them and even suggested that the two cultures, Calaquendi and Moriquendi, be blended. Others, such as Feanor, believed that in this view her brother’s wisdom had failed him, that to blend with them in culture and blood would be to dilute the purity of their own race. He had even spoken against the Teleri, whom he had always deemed the least of the Calaquendi, rebuking Olwe and saying, “you renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need. Yet you were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers, and well nigh empty handed. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carve out your haven and toiled upon your walls.”

In this manner had Feanor’s words sat ill with Artanis for she herself bore Telerin blood from her mother and the implications of such speech troubled her greatly. She shivered now, not a shiver of cold but one born of distaste, for she recalled the way that she had worshipped her uncle Feanor and now, after the horrible things that he had done, she wondered how she could have been so blind, how she could have allowed his words to stir her, and she looked upon her past self with great distaste.

Nevertheless, she thought, turning her mind to happier thoughts, she expected that the Moriquendi would be glad to see them. They would have heard of the great wisdom and skill of the Noldor, who would only be too glad to educate their kin in their ways and perhaps together they would be able to rid all Arda of Morgoth.

The thought brought a smile to her face. This was why she had come. To explore, to conquer. She was weary of Valinor, of lands where she felt caged, always confined to being someone's daughter, someone's sister, a land where there was no room to be anything more than what you had been born. But her mind yearned for lands without a horizon, where she might establish her own kingdom in her own right, where she would bow to no one.

That night they built a stack of kindling from some of their salvaged belongings and lit it with the two precious stones of flint, the bedraggled group of survivors crowding around the meager source of light and heat. There were no stars in the sky tonight, the indigo void above as empty as her stomach.

Artanis gazed into the flames. Sometimes she still imagined she could see Feanor burning the swan ships of the Teleri, leaving Fingolfin, Artanis, and her brothers to die along with their people. Betrayal. He had left them with no other way but to brave the Helcaraxe. Even then, she could have turned back as her father had done, as he had begged her to do. But though she had not taken the terrible oath of Feanor and his sons, she had taken an oath of her own, to establish herself as a queen in her own right and to thereby thwart evil in all things.

It seemed so long ago that he had reached out and tugged gently on her hair as they stood beneath the light of the two trees, caressing it, and, though she had admired him, she had not liked his touch, her skin crawling at the merest brush of his fingers, and she had shrunk away.

“You would not miss a single strand. Twice have I asked and twice you have refused. This time I beg you give me a different answer... You are so beautiful to me Artanis.”

It was unnatural and her heart revolted against his sentiment. At a loss for words she had slapped his hand away, running from the plaza. Although he called her beautiful, when he said it, she felt disgusting. His eyes contained an unsettling strangeness, perhaps that’s what it was, perhaps that was all that he was, fire, burning and destroying.

There was blood everywhere, staining the beaches and the tide was rising, stained incarnadine. She saw Curufin plunge his blade into the heart of a tall silver haired elf, blood burbling around the wound as he withdrew the crimson stained weapon. Saliva, froth, tinted pink with blood, trickled from the mouth of the Teleri as he crumpled into a heap on the dock. He twitched and then was still as a milky film glazed eyes that had only a few moments earlier, been full of shock and terror.

The Teleri still did not comprehend what was happening and their confusion cost them dearly for they had been unarmed and they had hesitated to escape when the Feanorians had first drawn their swords, unable to believe that their kinsmen truly intended to slaughter them. Everywhere there were people running and the air was filled with screams. Artanis could feel the tears running down her face. She had been raised here in Aqualonde, amongst her mother’s people, and now wherever she turned she saw familiar faces, cold and glassy eyed in death.

A newly severed head bounced to the dock from the shoulders of its owner and spun like a top. Startled, she lurched backwards, tripping into a fountain. The water from it sprayed onto her face and she shrieked as she noticed that it was red with blood, the entrails of the disembowled floating lazily across the gruesome surface. Hands wrapped around her neck from behind and she struggled violently, choking hard, her chest tightening, and managed to shake her attacker off, turning to find herself facing a she elf who was with child.

Artanis gasped, confused, unable to understand what was happening. The Teleri lunged at her again shrieking, fear, pain, and anger in her eyes. She was afraid that Artanis would kill her and Artanis stood frozen. Then, the she elf was knocked off of her feet as Celegorm charged at her. She fell, hitting her head on the ledge of the fountain, blood and brainmatter beginning to leak from her cracked skull but somehow she was still alive. “No!” Artanis gasped. “No!”

“GO TO THE BOATS!” Celegorm screamed at her. He grabbed the Teleri by her silver hair and thrust her head into the red pool. She did not struggle hard, already half dead, and her body soon went limp, collapsing against the stone. Artanis stood stunned. It was like a horrible dream. Surely, surely she would awaken any moment. “ARTANIS GO!” He shouted again, smacking her hard across the face. It shocked her out of her frozen stupor. All that she knew how to do was run and run she did, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. A vision, white hot and burning, seared across her vision: Feanor, the silver scalps of the Teleri hanging from his belt, his eyes gone mad. She reached the boats to find his sword pointed at her throat.

“Three times you denied me! Think you now that I shall allow you to pass?” He screamed, his face contorted with anger and madness. He swung wildly at her and she turned, fleeing from the ships shrieking, clawing at her head. Her mother’s kin were dying all about her. It vanished.

Suddenly she was in a much different place. She lay upon soft silken sheets and a bright white light filled her mind. She felt warmth beside her. A hand caressed her cheek gently, a soft kiss on her lips, then the hollow of her neck. A soft rich laugh. The whisper of a name: Galadriel. She smiled and then it was gone.

Artanis awoke with a start. Her breath was ragged and her heart pounding, her body shaking and not because of the cold. She had felt fear and then joy. She lay back down as one of the elves standing guard over the sleeping company looked at her anxiously. Her dreams were growing more troubled lately and they were increasingly confusing. For days after the kinslaying her memory had remained blank. And then, then, the memories had started to return in pieces. She lay awake, unable to resume her slumber.

 

*****

The arrow flew straight and struck true, landing dead center in the gnarly black head of an orc. Celeborn, silver-haired prince of the Sindar turned to direct a thankful nod at Beleg Strongbow, who sat perched in a tree with his mighty black bow. The master archer grinned back in acknowledgment and Celeborn lazily turned to sink his gleaming silver axe into the neck of an orc that was coming straight towards him.

Ever since Thingol and Denethor had led them to victory against Bauglir’s forces in the Battle of Beleriand, the attacks by the orcs had been getting weaker and weaker. They had marshaled a force to send south in support of Cirdan, who had been besieged at Eglarest and Brithombar but, since Denethor had been slain and the Green Elves had refused to fight without him, the force had been too weak and it was repelled. Bauglir had dealt them a blow indeed, though they had triumphed, and it would take them years to return to their former glory but return they would, for this was the land of Elu Thingol, High King of Beleriand.

Celeborn bent to wipe his axe on the fallen leaves and smiled as he heard Beleg whooping and singing a Sindarin war song. The orcs had all been slain and the elves milled about, checking the corpses for anything of use before leaping into the trees and heading back towards Menegroth, crossing the girdle into their hidden kingdom. They sang as they ran and as they swung through the trees, falling in with Beleg’s song.

 _The four winds are blowing,_  
_A war party came a riding,_  
_They came riding on wolves._  
_Their teeth they were sharp,_  
_Sharp as knives in the dark._  
_Our arrows they were sharper,_  
_Our blades they were sharper,_  
_We have obliterated every trace of them!_

They sent up a great shout as the song came to an end and then Celeborn began to lead them in song, the others joining in.

 _We circle round, we circle round,_  
_The boundaries of the earth._  
_We circle round, we circle round,_  
_The boundaries of the earth._  
_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,_  
_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly._  
_We circle round, we circle round,_  
_The boundaries of the sky._

They ran throughout the day, eager to return to their home after weeks spent outside the girdle in the wilderness. As much as Celeborn missed Menegroth, he was quite certain that he could live forever in these woods. He loved the feeling of the wind in his face and the living trees beneath his feet. He could hear them singing as he passed through, greeting him, his old friends. From the tops of the tallest sycamores he could see all of Doriath spread out beneath him, a sight that never failed to strike wonder into his heart. There was never a time when he felt more wild and free, never a time when he felt happier than this, to see his kingdom in all of her beauty.

Moving quickly, they reached Menegroth by nightfall and passed happily through those gates of the hidden kingdom. Dinner was underway but some of their company headed for the bathhouses instead while Celeborn and Beleg, sick of eating nothing but lembas, dried meat, and nuts, headed for the great hall, where dinner awaited. It was in the Sindarin tradition for all to eat together there, which they did by sitting on cushions around low tables set on the floor. All were free to wander as they pleased and most did so, moving from table to table, sampling different foods and conversations as they went. Here kitchen maids mingled freely with the king’s counselors and animal and elf alike was welcome. Dinner here was not a chore to be quickly done with, no, it was an event to be relished and enjoyed over the course of an entire evening.

Celeborn and Beleg moved slowly through the hall for there were many who wished to greet them or have words with them but before they could satiate their growling stomachs, a messenger approached to summon them to Thingol’s chambers and it was with much regret that, as they left the hall, they looked back at the steaming trenchers of roast boar meat and grilled fish and forest herbs.

“That shot!” Celeborn exclaimed with a laugh as they tread the familiar path to Thingol’s quarters. He stopped momentarily, reenacting it. “That was a fine bit of archery Beleg, like shooting a fresh melon.” He laughed and strode forward once more.

“Just doing my job your highness,” Beleg replied with a grin. “Not all of us feel the need to perform theatrics with our axes,” he spun about, performing a mockery of Celeborn’s fighting style, laughing.

“Your highness…” Celeborn scoffed, “you mock me Strongbow!” But their antics continued no further for they had arrived at Thingol’s great door and Celeborn knocked, though he waited for no reply before entering. “Uncle, I say, calling us away from our dinner. Do you not think that most cruel and unusual?” The prince asked, feigning complete seriousness as he stood at rigid attention before the king, who was sitting in his chair behind his desk.

“Not so cruel and unusual as what I might have done to you had you not heeded my summons,” Thingol said with a raised eyebrow and a grin, for he could not entirely mask his amusement at the antics of the two younger elves. Celeborn’s name meant ‘silver tree’ and yet Thingol often pondered that ‘silver tongue’ might have been more appropriate, whether for better or for worse, for the prince’s words could either smooth over the most bitter of quarrels or cut one down to the very bone itself. “And besides,” the king continued, turning to Melian his queen, who sat to his right, “we have received very shocking and important news that I would tell you immediately, before word of it spreads like wildfire throughout this city.”

“Well if it is interesting enough then we may forgive you after all,” Celeborn said to his uncle.

It was Melian who laughed at her nephew’s earnest expression and then she said, “As the both of you well know, I have been particularly perceptive of a changing lately, though I knew not what that change was until today. But, at last, we have had word from Cirdan and, not only him, but from our cities in the Northwest.”

“May I be permitted to hope that this is good news?” Beleg asked them. “For neither one of you looks particularly somber.”

“Whether good or bad we cannot yet tell,” said Thingol, “but it is certainly news that would invite caution, though there may a part of it that is joyous as well. Time will tell with it, as it does with all things. Yet, be not impatient and allow us to speak properly. Today we received word from Cirdan at Falas that the orcs which were attacking have drawn back at last,” the king said, a grin upon his lips and a twinkle in his eye. He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his desk. “Good news not only for Cirdan, but for us as well, for long had I worried that I could not send him the army he needed and now my worries have been assuaged and Menegroth need not tax herself so harshly to meet that demand.”

And at this Celeborn cocked his head, eyeing his uncle quizzically, for though he enjoyed his jests and good fun, he was above all a highly intelligent lad and Thingol could see that his nephew’s mind was already bent upon the matter fully. It was, indeed, the reason that the king had named the young silver-haired prince as his right hand. “Do you mean to tell us that Cirdan has managed to push them back himself unaided or can it be that they have retreated of their own accord?” Celeborn asked. “For it seems to me that both of these scenarios seem highly unlikely. It may well be that Cirdan could have achieved this but it would have taken him a much longer time than it has done.”

“Well said nephew,” Thingol gave answer, “and, indeed, you have struck near the truth. Bauglir’s forces abandoned their siege of the havens in favor of joining another battle.”

And now it was Beleg who reasoned aloud, saying: “Another battle…but with whom? Denethor’s people? Yet that cannot be, for they have sworn to never fight again after Denethor was slain.”

“This also is true,” Thingol said, for it was not Denethor’s people who joined in battle with Bauglir’s forces. Rather, it was to move against one called Fëanor that the orcs abandoned their siege of Falas,” Thingol replied, the satisfaction in his eyes coming together as his tale neared its climax. He did so love to make them think but both of them stared back at him with blank expressions.

“Fëanor? But who is he?” Celeborn asked, “For I have never before heard his name and it seems strange to me that one whom I do not know should enter into this realm without my knowledge.” Both he and Beleg were looking intently at their king now.

“He is the son of my dear friend Finwe, or so my reports from our people who live in the north say,” Thingol said simply. At that both Beleg and Celeborn grew wide-eyed with shock, for whatever news they had expected, it had never been this. “The Noldor have returned,” the king said.

“What of the Vanyar? What of the Teleri?” Beleg asked.

“Either they have not come at all and will not or they have not yet come,” Thingol said. “At the moment only the Noldor have arrived.”

“A very strange turn of events indeed,” Celeborn mused aloud.

“Is this not cause for rejoicing?” Beleg asked. “Surely it cannot be coincidence that they arrived in our hour of need, as Cirdan was besieged with us powerless to help him. Perhaps they have been sent by the Valar to assist us. For the loss of Denethor was a great blow indeed and without the assistance of the green elves we were not even able to assist Cirdan at the havens. If their force is large enough we might be able to take decisive action against Bauglir.” But Celeborn did not throw his lot in with Beleg for he had taken notice of Melian and the uncertainty that he saw in her eyes, finding that it rhymed well with a certain foreboding that seemed to trouble his heart.

So instead he said: “And yet why should the Valar see fit to answer our prayers now when they have consistently turned deaf ears upon our pleas? For out of all of them only Orome shared in both our pleasures and our sorrows.” Beleg turned a skeptical eye on his friend, for the prince’s habit of blasphemy had ever struck him as ill, but Celeborn continued to speak, saying: “Could it not be that this is no triumphant return, but an exodus caused by some event in Aman, some great trouble or unrest? And should not the fact that none of our Telerin brethren nor any of the Vanyar travel with them be evidence enough that there may have been some discord to which we are not privy?

“When I contemplate this question, my heart grows disquiet indeed and I find that my mind immediately wishes to know more of this situation, to know if these Noldor are well prepared, as if for a journey long-planned, or whether they are in disorder, seeming like one who steals from his bed in the middle of the night. There are those who might say that this line of questioning is mere folly for Aman is good and all of the fruit that she bears is equally good. Yet on some rare occasions have I seen a prized tree yield a spoiled apple and so I find that I cannot believe that any land, even Aman itself, does not bear some stain.”

Thingol sit in silence for a long while contemplating the matter, for these were thoughts that had not occurred, even to the him and Melian, and he found himself astounded at the wisdom of his nephew. Young though he was, he was aptly named wise.

At length Thingol shifted in his seat and began to speak again. “Many ages have we been separated from our kin in Aman and so we cannot with certainty say what might have passed or understand how they may have changed in the time in which we have not had contact with them. Yet you are right indeed to wonder these things nephew, and I find even that you have brought questions to my mind which I had not previously considered.

“Upon first hearing the news, I, like Beleg, was overjoyed to think that I might once more meet my kin, from whom I have been long sundered, and my mind ran even so far as to think that perhaps the way had been opened to us and the Eldar might now pass freely between Aman and Middle Earth,” Thingol said. “Yet when I pondered further I grew uneasy, for I wondered why Bauglir should have returned so suddenly to our lands and begun to build up once more his fortress of Angband, and I think not that it is mere coincidence that the Noldor have come so soon after he. And there are many questions that I have concerning the strange goings on of late: these two lights, one gold and one silver, that now circle the sky and the increase in Bauglir’s strength that led to the war we have only just finished. I should very much like to know the answers to these questions.” So said the king.

“Can you not see what has happened?” Celeborn said, turning to Melian but she shook her magnificent head.

“The way is closed to me, concealed with a darkening shroud,” the queen told him, “I dreamed that I walked through the forest in a starless night when before me lay a gate of stone so great that I could neither see over it nor pass around it. It was as tall as a mountain and seemed to span the entire earth. There hung from its top a long black curtain that seemed to billow in the wind though there was no breeze and yet I could see nothing on the other side for it seemed only darkness lay there. As I approached, a great fear came over me and then from the other side I heard thousands of voices whispering to me in a language I could not understand yet it seemed that they called to me for help, entreating with me to save their lives. But, as I placed my hand upon that shroud I suddenly knew that were I to pass through, I could never return and I should be gone forever. Then the voices all cried out at once and were immediately silenced.” Celeborn felt a cold chill creep down his spine at the Queen’s words and from the look in Thingol’s eyes he knew that the king had already heard this tale and that he and Melian had discussed it with concern. These were dark tidings indeed.

“These Noldor carry a great evil with them,” she continued. “It is something the like of which I have never seen, yet I cannot perceive it clearly, though I have sent my creatures to watch them and though I myself have wandered ghostlike amongst them at night. It is an evil so great that they dare not speak it aloud nor give it name.” At her words, Celeborn found his heart was greatly troubled for he had never known Melian to be thwarted in her designs and so he surmised that this evil must be great indeed and carefully guarded.

“We must be wary,” Thingol said. “This may merely be the precursor to worse things that are to come.” Celeborn could understand his king’s wariness well. Never had he heard Melian speak of such dark things but he was well aware of the veracity of her premonitions and, like Thingol, it was not something he would take lightly. “It is, therefore, my decree that none but the children of Finarfin be allowed within the girdle of our realm.” The king continued. “For these four alone we have judged to be innocent of the stain. Beleg,” Thingol said, turning to the chief warden, “you will communicate this information to the other march wardens and most especially to Mablung when he returns from our borders.”

“The children of Finarfin?” Celeborn asked.

“My sources say that there are four, three males and a female, though they journey alongside Fingolfin’s people, separately from the Fëanorian host. It seems that some rift has opened between the two groups though we cannot know what it is. And here is an answer to your earlier question nephew, for while Fëanor’s host is fit and healthy, the hosts of Fingolfin and the house of Finarfin appear as paupers, dressed in rags, emaciated such that their bones are tight against their skin. Yet we could not discern all that had happened, for the scouts that discovered them do not speak their language.”

“Did our people initiate contact?” Beleg asked.

“No, not with Fingolfin’s host and the children of Finarfin who travel with them. The Noldor do not know that we are tracking them. But it seems that Fingolfin’s party has come into contact with some of Denethor’s people, from whom we have received our information, though they are not able to communicate very well with them. They approached the green elves whenever they saw them as if in a panic, for they were starving and knew not how to cultivate the earth. The green elves taught them as much as they were able, though they could not well understand their speech, and took pity on them, giving them clothing and food.”

Elu Sindacollo he was sometimes called, the “grey cloak” for his family’s trait of silver hair, yet at times Celeborn thought that he ought to be called Elu Lhewig, “The ear,” for there was not a thing that passed in Beleriand that Thingol did not hear of. “But,” the king said, continuing, “Feanor has indeed come into contact with some of our people, though they liked him not. It is from them that I have received word of his movements. These two groups of Noldor are traveling separately, which leads me to believe that mayhaps there has been some quarrel among their princes or else they did not leave Aman together.”

“You have known of this for some time then, have you not?” Celeborn asked.

“The first news, from the green elves and from our folk in the Northwest, came to me soon after you left to cleanse our borders but the news from Cirdan I have only heard today.” Thingol said.

“Your highness! I beg you, wait but a moment!” Beleg said, raising his hands as he laughed uncontrollably. “What do you mean they do not know we are tracking them? Are they truly so unaware?” Thingol shrugged.

“They seem somewhat ill adapted to forest life and they are unaccustomed to living in the wild. I have heard that they have brought all manner of strange things with them, furniture and such.” Celeborn and Beleg could not contain their mirth at that and both began laughing wildly. Even Thingol, though he had tried to remain serious in light of the dark news he had so recently delivered, could not help but crack a grin. At times he felt very exhausted indeed, for life in Middle Earth was no easy thing and being a king in charge of those lives he sought to protect was harder yet. With the recent war and Bauglir’s growing strength he had often spent many a day in worry rather than sleep, yet it was good, he mused, to keep these young elves around in the capital and not send them overly much to the borders, for they reminded him of the days when he too had been young and carefree.

“Very well then,” Thingol said to the young ones, who were still doubled over with laughter. “You have given me a great deal of grief over your dinner and yet now that I have finished with you I am surprised that you do not make with all haste to the banquet hall. Get thee gone then!”

“Oh please,” Celeborn said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Please uncle will you send us to scout their position?”

“Absolutely not,” Thingol replied. “I will not have you seek them out for your own entertainment when I need you for other matters. And, besides, you will see them soon enough. Two of Finarfin’s sons ride for Menegroth as we speak.”

“Indeed, they have just now passed the girdle,” Melian said, turning to her husband.

“Two of his sons? What of his daughter? We wish to see his daughter,” Beleg said with a grin and Celeborn eagerly nodded his assent.

“We do indeed uncle, we do indeed,” he chimed in.

“Go on, get yourselves gone from here! A moment ago you were bellyaching about not having your dinner and now I cannot seem to be rid of you,” Thingol said with a shake of his head while Melian laughed, a sound with all the richness of bells. But the king stood as the young ones made to exit and approached his nephew.

“Celeborn,” Thingol took his nephew by the elbow as the younger elf made to leave, “another thing.” The king spoke in a low voice, looking agitated. “Frerin has been pestering me again…something about me bringing him here under false pretenses. They’re just clamoring after money like they always do.” He shook his head, licking his lips nervously. “You know how dwarves are. Would you go and placate him for me whenever you have the time?”

Celeborn sighed. The relationship between the dwarves of Nogrod and the Sindar had been strained of late and whenever Celeborn dealt with either Frerin or Thingol on that matter it tried him sorely. It was like weeding through an endless web of lies and half-truths with more unpleasant surprises around every corner. As much as Celeborn loved and admired his uncle he continually found himself frustrated by the political entanglements that he often entrapped the both of them in.

“Of course uncle,” Celeborn said with a smile and a nod, for he had not the liberty to say anything else, but a certain uneasiness settled over him as he and Beleg at last adjourned to their dinner.

 

*****

“Brothers!” Artanis cried, standing and brushing the soil from her hands. “Tell me what it was like! Was it truly wonderful?” Her heart was pounding in her chest with excitement. All the while they had been gone she had so eagerly awaited news of their travels, yearning to hear what tidings they would bring of Doriath, the hidden kingdom. She remembered sitting on Finwë’s knee as a young child, listening to his tales of the lost kindred, the Sindar, the lingerers. The Elves of Twilight, the Noldor had already begun to call them on account of their love of the night, but still others called them the Enchanters and Artanis longed to see their enchantments, to learn if the rumors were true, if their voices were really so beautiful that they could entrance you, if the really could bewitch the forests as had been said.

Angaráto and Aikanáro could only laugh as they dismounted from their horses for they had seen Artanis look a queen in all of the fine regalia of a Noldorin princess in the gardens of Lorien, and they had seen her look the most boyish of them all, wrestling in the mud and playing at swords with her cousins in Valinor, but this was the first time that they had seen her wearing sackcloth for a dress while she dug potatoes barefoot.

“Thank the Valar you are here,” Artanis said, embracing them. “Out dear cousins have arrived and are eagerly awaiting you.” She couldn’t help rolling her eyes as she said it, or the somewhat sarcastic tone that had crept into her voice at the word ‘dear’. Only a few years had passed but she knew that even thousands of years later she would still not forgive her cousins for what they had done in Alqualondë. Nor, she mused as she reflected upon the cold way that her cousins had greeted her and Finrod this morning, were the sons of Fëanor likely to forgive the children of Finarfin for taking up arms in a futile effort to stop the assault.

“Findaráto and I are about to go mad,” she murmured to Angaráto. “He has already been arguing with them. I couldn’t stand any of it and so I came over here,” she gestured to what might generously be called a vegetable garden but which for accuracy’s sake could hardly be described as anything more than a few holes in the mud from which the fibrous green stems of various root vegetables jutted. It was Artanis’s project, the planting of such plants a skill she had learned from the Green Elves, her modest effort to somehow mediate the effects of the famine that now burden their host. But Artanis hardly had a green thumb and thus what had begun as an enthusiastic endeavor was now merely the hardy remnants of the sturdiest plants which has withstood her well-intentioned but unsuccessful efforts.

“Splendid,” Angaráto said drolly, casting a friendly eye over his bedraggled plants, “if even Finrod is arguing with them then they must be in foul moods today.”

Artanis sighed. “They have had many bitter words already over the business of mother’s people and the Helcaraxë,” she said. Findaráto was ever the mediator, but for even him there could be no compromise regarding what their cousins had done.

“I should have known they would come when they heard we were returning from Menegroth,” Angaráto said as he tethered his horse to a nearby tree, his eyes dark with latent anger. He, like Artanis, bore the most anger towards their cousins and was of the opinion that they should have no more dealings with them. “I’m glad to hear, however, that Findaráto isn’t trying to smooth things over, for if he hadn’t already said something to them about their behavior then I certainly would have, perhaps I will yet.”

“Yet what would it profit us to start old quarrels anew?” Said kindhearted Aikanáro, but Artanis knew her brother well and though Aikanáro was the gentles of all of them, she did not doubt his resolution in the slightest, for of all of them he had been the most fierce in battle at Alqualondë, his eyes seeming to flash with fire, and the Fëanorions had not forgotten that many of their men had died on the blade of Arafinwë’s youngest son as he fought in defense of his mother’s family.

“You know what they’re hoping for,” Artanis murmured, her voice laced with bitterness. “They think you’ve brought word that Thingol is about to let them divvy up Beleriand as they like.”

“I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed then,” Angaráto said, though he certainly did not sound disappointed about it, “but I don’t see how that will matter at all, seeing as they always do as they like, no matter who tells them that they cannot.”

Together the three of them approached the place where their cousins sat with Findaráto. “Don’t stare at Maedhros’s arm,” Artanis whispered to Angaráto, worried that her hot-headed brother might say something about Maedhros’s lost hand just to spite their cousins. It would be like pouring grease on a fire; she could already see how irritated the sons of Fëanor were as they approached and even good-natured Findaráto was wearing a scowl. It appeared that they hadn’t resolved their quarrel whatsoever.

“Cousins well met!” Aikanáro said, raising a hand in greeting as they approached in an effort to be friendly, but Artanis could see that it would be of no use at all, even the more mild mannered of her cousins were in foul tempers and Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir looked near ready to tear Findaráto limb from limb.

“Took your time in returning didn’t you?” Curufin cried, springing to his feet. “Do you know how many months we’ve been waiting while you dallied about with those dark elves?”

“Thingol is hardly a dark elf,” Angaráto said, taking a seat on a campstool, and Artanis took her seat beside him, brushing dirt from her skirt. It was a ceremonial gesture only, for her skirt was filthy and her hands filthier still, caked in grime, dirt black beneath her worn down fingernails. So much for the majestic host of Valinor, she thought, glancing around at the camp with its weather-beaten canvas tents and oily smoke that rose all about them from cooking fires. They wouldn’t even have had the tents if it hadn’t been for the generosity of the Green Elves.

She reached up to brush her hair back behind her ear but the ends of the strands broke off, dry and brittle as straw. It was the result of malnourishment, as were the hollows in her cheeks, her collarbones and ribs that were too prominent, her knobby knees, her small breasts that were now nearly nonexistent. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling far to vulnerable. Beauty had been her cloak and now it was gone.

But the sons of Fëanor, who had not had to weather the Helcaraxë, were well fed, their skin flushed with life, their clothes not the sackcloth that Artanis wore, but the rich brocades, and velvets, and silks of Valinor. Artanis stared down at Maglor’s shiny black boots, envious of their wealth. Findaráto had made her put her last good clothes away to keep, telling her she would need to save them for if they ever went to Doriath. They couldn’t appear before the throne of a king dressed in these rags. She scuffed her bare foot against the dirt.

Even all the riches that Findaráto had brought out of Tirion were useless here. The Green Elves had no use for jewelry and gems and had merely stared at the wealth of Aman as if it were some sort of novelty, refusing to barter for such things. But what they lacked in refinement they made up for in kindness, giving as much as they were able. Still, the grain and roots had not been enough to tide the Noldor over for the winter and they struggled to hunt the quick and wary creatures of this land who seemed to sense them coming even before they could loose a single arrow.

And then Artanis turned to look at her brothers who sat beside her. Aikanáro and Angaráto too were well fed and well clothed, having profited from their stay in Doriath and the hospitality of the Sindar. Jealousy knotted itself in the pit of Artanis’s stomach. She too had wanted to visit the Sindarin kingdom and yet, as ever it seemed, she had been left behind.

“Well get on with it then,” Caranthir snapped, drawing Artanis from her thoughts. “You took your time dallying in Doriath and now you take your time in telling your tale. Let’s hear it and don’t think of hiding anything from us. You can be sure we’ll find it out.” Her cousin’s dark eyes were on Angaráto. It was no secret amongst the Noldor that the Fëanorions were jealous that Thingol had extended his welcome to Finarfin’s children but not to those of Fëanor.

“You forget yourself,” Maedhros said in a low voice, placing his hand on Caranthir’s arm. “These are our cousins and they mean us no harm. Do not be hasty in your words or your judfment.” It occurred to Artanis then that Maedhros’s anger might indeed be directed more at his own brothers than at hers. The tension in the air was so thick she could have cut it with a knife.

“I was very surprised indeed,” Curufin spoke up again, “to find our lovely cousin Artanis digging about in the dirt like a common Green Elf.” He laughed as though it was the most amusing of jokes and Artanis forced a smile onto her face. The hardship of the Helcaraxë had wasted them away until they looked so like skeletons that they had given the Green Elves a nasty fright upon first meeting them. And, the cavalier attitude that her cousins took towards those elves who had saved them from starvation sat very ill with Artanis.

The first winter had been hard, yet it would have been certain death if it had not been for the elves of this land who had helped them. They might be dark elves indeed, and it was true that they had not the might nor wisdom of the Noldor, but it was seldom nowadays that the word Moriquendi was spoken by those of Finarfin’s house, for it seemed poor recompense for those who had saved their lives.

But things had been different with the sons of Fëanor for they had needed no assistance or else they had refused what assistance was offered to them out of pride. It had been the Sindar, or grey elves, and not the green elves who had happened upon Feanor’s people. And the Feanorians had treated them with scorn, laughing at their strange clothes and even stranger habits, mimicking their language and speaking disrespectfully about them in Quenya before their very faces.

But it would not do now to start yet another quarrel and so, taking a deep breath and forcing her lips to conform to a smile, Artanis said, “well you called me a little piglet when we were children for the way I squealed when you tickled me. Is it not natural then for me to root about in the dirt?” Her words had the intended effect and her cousins laughed pleasantly, recalling the way they had all quarreled and played together as elflings, and forgetting the tension of the present.

“Menegroth is a wonder to rival even the gardens of Lórien and the palaces of Aman,” Angaráto said, beginning his tale, and Artanis could feel a grin spreading across her face as she listened in rapt attention. All this time in Middle Earth and she had yet to see anything that was not dirt, trees, and sludge but she dreamed of seeing the great capital city of Doriath, of what wonder might await her there, of what inspiration she might take from there in the founding of her own kingdom.

“It is a cave, just as the Sindar told you it was,” Angaráto said to their cousins, “yet it seems hardly fit to call it a cave for it is like no cave I have ever seen in my life. You would hardly be able to believe that you are beneath the ground, or that the entire city is carve out of stone, so magnificently is it wrought.”

“You speak too slowly!” Findaráto joked with his brother. “We’ll all be asleep by the time you finish your tale.” That sent up a chorus of laughter and Artanis felt the tension of the situation abate almost completely.

“The ceiling,” Aikanáro said, his face still lit with the wonder of remembrance, “is like no ceiling that you have ever seen for it is so high above you that it might be as far away as the sky itself. And, what is more, Melian has enchanted it so that it does indeed appear as the very sky, imitating both night and day. The stars move across it, as does the moon, a perfect illusion of the night itself so that if you were to step outside and then back in again you would not know the difference between the two. During the day, which is when the Sindar sleep, for they prefer the dark of night and the light of the stars, the ceiling appears as a bright sunny day, with perfectly blue skies and white wispy clouds like cotton, or else it roils with storm clouds and crackles with lightening, mimicking the weather of the true sky, but it never rains within the palace, even if there is a downpour outside.”

“The pillars of the palace are carved in the likeness of trees of all species in such exactitude that you would not be surprised to imagine that you saw them growing. And these are tall beyond measure, reaching clear up to that high and magnificent ceiling. Their leaves are of emerald and glass, clear and glittering, veined with gold, and they reflect both the light of the sun and of the moon with equal beauty. The floor is not of marble or granite or tile but is in every way exact to the forest floor, comprised of both dirt and grass and mosses, flat in some places and with hills in others, and the roots of the pillars are dug into it as if they were real trees and real flowers grow there as well, lilies such as I have never seen, and many specimens of plant that do not grow in Aman. The ground beneath one’s feet is thick with greenery and mosses, flowers and ferns from which peek rabbits and deer, forest cats and wolves, and all manner of birds and even salamanders and lizards. These are wild creatures that come and go from the palace as they please, just as if they were elves themselves and subject to Thingol’s rule.”

“Then there are the streams: creeks and brooks that flow freely throughout the city, their water fresh and delicious to drink, as beautiful and clear as crystal. These are filled with all manner of fish, many of which I have never seen before, and they are vibrantly colored in reds, oranges, and golds, blue and lavender and green. But these are not for eating and the Sindar feed them and take delight merely in watching them and caring for them. Truly,” he said, “it is the most wondrous place that I have ever seen and I gave thanks to Ilúvatar himself for giving me the gift of sight that I might behold it.”

Artanis hung on every word that her brothers spoke, already conjuring the fantastic images in her mind. It sounded like something out of a storybook, like some fairytale that her mother use to read to her when she had been a child, and she could not help but recall the many long hours she had passed in her grandfather Olwë’s study, pouring over every book that he had, books in which the Teleri had tried to record what they could remember of their kin who had been left in Middle Earth. But what Artanis really wanted to hear about was the Sindar themselves. Did they still look as they did in the drawings her grandfather had made?

Olwë had nearly seemed angry with her when he had caught her with that book, the one in which the same two elves drawn over and over, as if the hand drawing them was trying to memorize the faces, to commit to memory the lines that can composed them. But the artist had not succeeded, for though the likeness was still there, towards the middle of the book the faces had begun to change and, by the last few pages, they hardly resembled the first few pictures that had been drawn.

He had startled her, snatching the book away with one long-fingered white hand, and Artanis had looked up into the piercing blue eyes of her mother’s father, the one speck of color in an otherwise colorless face. Olwe’s hair, white as snow, tumbled long and straight to the marble floors of Alqualondë’s palace and as Artanis had stared up into his face, marked with the lines of anger, she had seen the resemblance between him and the two elves in the book…except their hair had been silver.

“That’s private,” Olwë has said, his voice dark as a thundercloud over the ocean, “how did you get into my study?”

“Who are they?” Artanis had asked. Though everyone else feared her grandfather she did not. He could be filled with the fury of a hurricane and yet she knew he loved her dearly. And…as she had known it would, his patience had prevailed, the tension in his shoulders dissipating, the anger in his face relaxing, though he still clutched the book in his hand and did not return it to her.

“They are my brothers,” he said. “Elwë and Elmo are their names…or were….”

“Where are they?” The audacity of childhood had caused her to ask him.

“Lost…in Middle Earth…or dead perhaps…” Olwë had said, turning away and putting the book on the topmost shelf where she could not reach. “Run along now to your mother,” her grandfather had chided her, a smile on his face once more, but she had seen the sadness lingering in his eyes.

The old curiosity surfaced again and Artanis turned to Aikanáro. “What of Menegroth’s people?” She asked. “What of Elwë and Melian? What of the Sindar? I have waited so very long to hear of them.”

“Thingol,” Aikanáro said with a wink, having caught the eagerness in his sister’s tone, “is impressive indeed, taller even than Finwë and more handsome. He is very wise, a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings, and extraordinarily kind and generous unless angered, but if truly provoked then he is a terrible sight to behold indeed. I would imagine he is very fierce in battle. He is sometimes called Sindacollo by his own people. We were told that it means ‘grey mantle,’ for his hair is not the same white as Grandfather’s, but is of pure silver, bright as the edge of a blade, like a fall of stars it was, long and regal.”

“Ah but Melian is truly a sight to behold!” Her brother said with a broad smile. “She is beautiful beyond comprehension, with hair as black as midnight and eyes like the evening sky. She did not have much to say, as if she was always perceiving something beyond my understanding, but when she did speak her voice had an almost…mystical quality to it…as if it was coming from some far off place. And her daughter, the Princess Lúthien…why her beauty surpasses even that of ther mother and her kindness is beyond compare. I think you would like her very much Artanis. She is such a happy and gregarious person, taking delight in everything and so eager to meet us. To watch her dance is to be a man enchanted and she danced every evening,” he laughed. “I nearly forgot my own name upon seeing her and had I not suddenly recalled that I had a brother and a sister I might very well have stayed in Doriath merely so that I might see her dance again.”

Artanis laughed, seeing the star-struck look in the eyes of both Angaráto and Aikanáro. “You speak as if you have fallen in love!” She laughed and Aikanáro grinned sheepishly.

“It is impossible to meet her and not fall instantly in love with her!” He protested.

“So perhaps it is no myth that the Sindar enchant others into loving them,” Artanis said with a grin and a wink at her brother.

Aikanáro laughed. “Well you need not be alone Artanis. There is a prince too although I would hardly call him enchanting. Even after these past several months in Doriath my Sindarin is not very good but, though I could hardly understand him, I gathered that he is not exactly what one might call polite. He seems to make up for what he lacks in decorum with his good looks and his intelligence. He is the King’s chief counselor and they say he is a great warrior, very tall and strong even for a Sindarin male, and besides Thingol himself he is the only other of the Sindarin royals to be silver of hair.”

“I had not hear that Thingol has a son,” Maglor spoke up, intrigued.

“He has not,” Aikanáro replied, shaking his head. “The Prince of Doriath is the grandson of Elmo, the third king of the Teleri, Thingol’s brother and our grandfather, Olwë’s. Thingol raised him as his ward.” The Fëanorians shifted uneasily at the mention of Olwë’s name.

“And what has become of Elmo and his sons?” Findaráto asked quietly, exchanging a concerned look with Aikanáro. The younger brother shrugged.

“He had one son, Galadhon, who was the father of the Prince. But Galadhon and Elmo are both gone now and the Sindar would not speak of it. I presume they are dead…The…er…” he paused awkwardly for a moment before continuing, “Sindarin families tend to be rather small. It seems that not many of their children live long enough to reach maturity or else the parents are killed ere they can have more children.” His words were followed by a pregnant pause as the Noldor tried to comprehend such a foreign and horrifying idea.

“So Doriath has a prince and a princess,” Curufin mused, clasping his hands together between his knees as he raised his dark eyes to Artanis’s with a little grin. “Perhaps something might be arranged that could benefit the both of us,” he said. “Let one of us have this Lúthien and give Artanis in marriage to this prince. Let us tie Thingol by bonds tighter than those of his word…for these Sindar are cunning indeed and I find that I would not believe a word that they say. Besides, Thingol shall then have no other choice but to grant us lands in Beleriand.” Whether Curufin had been trying to cause discontent or not was debatable but, whatever his intention, he had certainly broken the short lived peace.

“You seek to exclude the House of Fingolfin,” Angaráto said, his voice low and bitter, eyes dark with growing anger, “to use us and Thingol as well in your bid to continue the spat between your father and our uncle.”

Artanis herself had bristled at what her cousin had said, her heart reviled by the thought. “I will not be bought and sold to further anyone’s political alliance!” She said, crossing her arms even more tightly over her chest. “A marriage to a…a dark elf…the very idea is abhorrent…” she began but could not find the words to finish for the sentence already sounded hideous to her, her first natural thought horror at the idea of marrying one who had never seen the light of the trees. She had only thought of the Green Elves and their kindness after she had begun to speak, feeling a twinge of guilt shoot through her heart. Perhaps they had not seen Aman’s light…perhaps they were lesser…but somehow the words she had planned to say didn’t seem right.

It was, however, the opportunity for malice that Curufin seemed to have been looking for. “What’s the matter Artanis? Won’t be had by a dark elf? Who else is going to marry you looking the way you do now, like a proper swine.” He laughed, a cruel smile on his face, and Artanis had to struggle to keep her anger in check, though she could feel it flushing her face. She knew it was a barb intended to hurt her, that he resented her for rejecting his son, Celebrimbor’s suit.

“I would beg you not to speak to my sister in that fashion,” Findaráto began calmly, but Maedhros interrupted.

“Curufin I would not hear you speak another word,” he said, “and Findaráto, you have my apologies for what my brother has said. It was neither just nor kind and the insinuation was most improper.”

Findaráto nodded and, following her brother’s lead, so did Artanis, though her heart still burned with anger and she was of half a mind to tell Curufin exactly what she thought of him.

“I think that perhaps I have heard my fill of Menegroth and her people,” Celegorm said. “For I have come to hear what Thingol has said concerning our desire to settle the lands in the North and I grow more and more impatient.” Tension still hung in the air and Artanis felt that almost certainly this would not end well, not that she had ever expected it to.

“Angaráto spoke quickly, seeing that the Feanorians were growing anxious and also that they had taken offense at the mention of Olwe’s name. “Then I will tell you what Thingol has decreed,” he told them. “I passed many long and pleasant hours in conversation with the King and this is what he said: ‘Thus shall you speak for me to those that sent you. In Hithlum the Noldor have leave to dwell, and in the highlands of Dorthonion, and in the lands east of Doriath that are empty and wild; but elsewhere there are many of my people, and I would not have them restrained of their freedom, still less ousted from their homes. Beware therefore how you princes of the West bear yourselves; for I am the Lord of Beleriand, and all who seek to dwell there shall hear my word. Into Doriath none shall come to abide but only such as I call as guests, or who seek me in great need.’”

Even as her brother had been speaking Artanis had been able to see the anger rising in her cousins’ eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he had not repeated verbatim what Thingol had said, but the anxiety of the moment had driven him and now that the words were out he could not take them back and even Maedhros appeared enraged.

“I did not expect such a cold welcome, even from Thingol,” the eldest of the brothers said, rising. “A king is he that can hold his own, or else his title is vain. Thingol does but grant us lands where his power does not run. Indeed Doriath alone would be his realm this day, but for the coming of the Noldor. Therefore in Doriath let him reign, and be glad that he has the sons of Finwe for his neighbors, not the Orcs of Morgoth that we found. Elsewhere it shall go as seems good to us.”

“That I would not advise,” Angaráto said, standing as well, his eyes flashing with a fire to rival that of Maedhros. “It is no fault of Thingol’s that those lands were overrun by orcs. The Sindar have just fought a long and dreadful war against Morgoth, one they would not have had to fight if your father had had the sense to turn the Silmarils over to Yavanna rather than allow them to be stolen by Morgoth.”

“Speak of our father will you?” Caranthir spat, shooting to his feet. “Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made you our spokesman to deal with Thingol? And though you have come to Beleriand do not so swiftly forget that your father is a lord of the Noldor, though your mother is of other kin.”

“How dare you speak of our mother’s kin!” Artanis spat, but the damage had been done and Angaráto had stormed off.

“It seems to me that the sons of Fëanor have made a habit of doing things in anger that they later regret,” Finrod said to Maedhros, crossing his arms over his chest, and even good-natured Aikanáro’s eyes had grown stormy with anger, but Artanis did not stay to hear what would happen and, heart hot in her chest, stormed off after Angaráto.


	2. A Journey in Darkness

  
**A Journey in Darkness**

In Cavern's Shade: 2nd Chapter

*****

"I am a stranger here, within a foreign land  
My home is far away, upon a golden strand  
Ambassador to be of realms beyond the sea."

*****

A great feast it was to be, yet Artanis could not help but feel that it was nothing more than a thin façade. She brushed at her gown, her one remaining proper gown, as Fingolfin raised his goblet to begin the toast. The rest of their clothing was threadbare and the grinding ice had stolen the majority of their possessions from them so that princes now lived as paupers. Yet Findaráto had been the most prudent in protecting his wealth, for he had brought a wealth of jewels and precious metals with him out of Aman, hoping with it to make alliances and barter for whatever they might need but at the moment that hope seemed in vain for all of his wealth did them no good as they could not eat jewels or gold nor could they spin them into cloth.

Artanis had never been a sedentary girl but the hard winters had taken their toll upon her both physically and mentally. It was with embarrassment that she now recalled her words when she and her brothers had debated seeking refuge in Menegroth.

We are the children of Arda, those who have seen the light. We do not need the aid of our dark cousins in order to settle here. Furthermore, why should we wish to put ourselves in their debt? It is below us. Such an alliance would most likely prove to be detrimental. Findaráto had thrown his hands up in frustration. He knew that his sister was intelligent but she could be so headstrong, so stupidly and unreasonably stubborn at times. Artanis felt shame wash over her at the memory and, worse than that, guilt.

The first winter had been the hardest and their joy at surviving the Helcaraxe had been short lived, for many more had perished in that starving time and well did she remember the pangs of hunger she had felt, the way that her eyes had grown sunken, the bony protrusions of her elbows and shoulders. The loss of her beauty, though only temporary, had been a humbling experience.

They had not known how to cultivate the land here nor how to hunt the animals, which were more agile and wary than those in Aman, and they had only survived by happening across several green elves who had been kind enough to show them how to grow root plants like potatoes and parsnips. Yet they had not been able to communicate well with them and the Laiquendi seemed somewhat averse to them, unwilling to let them starve, but reticent to remain in their company. Once they had seen that the Noldorin host would survive, they visited less and less frequently until, eventually, they had disappeared entirely.

The elves of this land were mysterious in that way for, though she was sure that they were all around them, she never saw them, nor did anyone else. They seemed to be entirely one with the land and it concealed them, offering them cover that it did not put forth to the Noldor. Now that she was here, Artanis could not exactly recall what she had supposed before she had come, but it must have been something along the lines of assuming that all the elves of Ennor were some sort of homogenous group. Yet, even in the short time that they had spent with the few green elves, she had learned that this was not so.

There were the grey elves, or the Sindar, the Eluwain as they called themselves, and these were the people of the hidden kingdom ruled by the mysterious king, Elu Thingol that her brothers has spoken so highly of. Then there were the green elves, or the Laiquendi, but they had once been Nandor. Avari there were as well, and they had a very unfriendly relationship with the Sindar. The Noldor had expected to find a virgin land and had instead blundered into a political world of which they had no knowledge. This had been made abundantly clear to them by the green elves who, though they could not communicate extensively with them as they did not speak the same language, were not hesitant to physically show their displeasure with the Sindar or the Avari when asked about them. Yet, at the same time, it was clear that these elves bore far more loyalty towards Thingol than they ever would towards the Noldor.

Fingolfin had once had the poorly thought out plan to send the green elves to obtain information about Thingol but the green elves had become extremely angry at the mention of this. This was the instance in which Artanis had realized that there were elves and then there were elves, for the elves of middle earth were quite different than the elves of Aman, and in unexpected ways. These elves could become quite angry and mercurial at the slightest provocation and had no compunctions about raising their voices or shouting, even if they were speaking to Fingolfin or Turgon, Fingon or Findaráto. Indeed, they seemed not to respect the hierarchy at all and could be downright impudent at times. It was all very shocking. Artanis had had some vague notion that the Noldorin host might be greeted with welcome and great fanfare. Instead, she found that they were avoided, and that Thingol and the Sindar spied upon them from near and far, ever present, never seen.

Perhaps it was this yearning for knowledge of the unknown that fueled her so or perhaps it was the rumors that surrounded the hidden kingdom and its mysterious king, and almost certainly it was in great part due to the enchanting words that Aikanáro had spoken regarding Menegroth but, whatever it was, Artanis had become more and more possessed by the burning desire to see one of these Sindar for herself, to see whether they were more man or myth. At times she could almost feel their presence, knew that they were nearby. She would hear a rustle in the trees or a soft voice upon the wind and it would send her running in the direction of the sound, only to be met with shadows and silence.

And now, today, she had gotten her wish at last. Fingolfin's toast, given in halting but moderately fluent Sindarin, was over and she had heard none of it, caught up in her reverie, but she clapped in applause along with the others before partaking of the feast before her. The food was good, the best she had eaten in a long while, for the Noldor were becoming increasingly adept at cultivating the land and gone were the days of starvation. There was meat on their bones again and friendship in their hearts, for today was a day for setting aside differences and uniting all of the elves in one cause. Ambassadors had come from all the peoples and realms of Beleriand and much effort had gone into impressing the ambassadors sent by King Thingol of the Sindar, for a potential alliance with him was proving to be more and more important.

Whatever her initial assumptions may have been, things were as Aikanáro had said: Thingol was no rustic woodland elf playing at King, but he was indeed a great King in his own right, a king on par with those of Aman. She felt obligated to respect this elf she had never met if only for the reason that he was lord of this dangerous and unforgiving land. He must be mighty indeed to be able to govern such a thing. And then there was the fact that he knew all of their movements. Nearly as soon as Feanor's people had moved into the north they had received an emissary from Thingol asking their business.

Now, Artanis was looking at two of this King's subjects and she had to admit that though she was impressed, she was not surprised, for they resembled the land they were born of, just as she had supposed they might: they were tough. There was one called Dairon and the other called Mablung and both of them were tall in stature and strongly built, unlike the green elves and Avari who were more willowy and shorter. Only Dairon wore a tunic, though its style and cut was quite different than those of the Noldo, and the one called Mablung was clad merely in deerskin leggings, leather bracers, and a strange silvery-grey cloak that seemed to blend into the shadows. The one called Dairon also wore a suede jerkin over is tunic, the skin of his hands and face, for that was all that was visible, as pale as snow, but Mablung was bare-chested and burnt by the sun. It was quite the contrast when compared to the ornately brocaded and stiffly starched clothes of the Noldor but the Sindarin garments were finely made, even if they did not wear very many of them. Still, the green elves wore considerably less than even the Sindar, sometimes employing clothes made only of leaves; there was indeed a stark contrast between the two peoples.

Dairon was the taller of the two, with long mahogany hair that was tied into two braids and keen, flashing copper eyes set in a kind face. Mablung was not as tall but he was built like an ox, thick and powerful. His pitch-black hair was shaved on the sides but stood up straight down the center of his head, ending in a long ponytail tied with a strip of leather. His face was sharp and angular with simmering blue eyes and a seemingly permanent wry grin; there was something about him that was almost sensual. But all that she could do was look, for they did not speak Quenya and Artanis did not speak Sindarin. However, they were managing to communicate with her brothers, who also did not yet speak Sindarin, as well as Fingolfin, through some sort of hand gestures and, despite the relative lack of conversation, they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Artanis could feel the lust for wandering rising in her heart once again and she fantasized about asking them to take her with them to their hidden kingdom, where surely all had eyes like theirs, filled with mirth rather than the light of the trees. What wonders must lie there, what fantastic things, she wanted to see all of it!

"Artanis," the somewhat annoyed voice came from her left, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Yes?" She asked and Angaráto rolled his eyes as he sopped up the sauce on his plate with a bit of bread.

"For the Valars' sake sister, must I keep calling your name? Artanis, Artanis, Artanis, you are more harebrained than mother's forgetful old cousin lately."

"My apologies brother, though if you weren't running your mouth all of the time I might have more of a propensity to pay attention. It is a cumbersome task indeed to pluck but a few flowers from a garden of weeds." Angaráto elbowed her and she elbowed him back with a laugh. Then he grasped her elbow and pulled her close so that he might lean down and whisper in his ear.

"Look at them," he said and she followed his gaze to where her cousins sat at the far end of the rustic wooden table, dappled sunlight falling upon six sets of shoulders. "Do they look repentant to you?" Artanis shrugged.

"A tiger does not change its stripes…" she began.

"…and birds of a feather flock together." Angaráto replied and Artanis knew by his words that he had not forgotten the harsh things that Caranthir had said to him when he and Aikanáro had been newly returned from Menegroth.

"Exactly." She replied. "They'll do it again, when given the chance." She sighed. "Do you think Findaráto is sincere in his trust of them?" Her brother nodded, swallowing his wine.

"It's Findaráto, of course he is, have you ever known him to be anything other than sincere? He wears his heart on his sleeve and one day it will get him killed."

"Don't say such things Angaráto!" She whispered, feeling a dark shadow move across her heart. "Have we not contemplated enough dark things already?"

"Better than ignoring them as Findaráto would have us do. If word of what Feanor has done ever reaches Thingol's ears it is better that we were first friends than foes. Perhaps the judgment will not be as harsh. We ought to tell him ourselves. Believe me, I have met him."

"It is not our place," Artanis began, twisting her dress between her fingers nervously, her eyes glancing up momentarily towards where the two Sindarin emissaries sat, but they were chattering away in their own strange language, blissfully oblivious to the tensions around them.

"If not ours then whose? Maedhros? The Feanorians will never say anything.

The fact that we did not participate ourselves in no way exempts us from the blame. Do not forget that we could have stopped them, ought to have stopped them, and yet we stood by out of fear for our own safety and fortune. Someone ought to tell Thingol." Angaráto fumed quietly.

"I fought," she insisted, "and besides they are leaders in their own right, Findaráto and Fingolfin…" Artanis began, even as she knew that she was merely trying to avoid the topic. Yet even as she spoke she knew that her words were not her own, for truthfully her heart lay with Angaráto's argument, though when first they had arrived she had thrown in her lot with Findaráto. She did wish that hotheaded Angaráto would stop speaking of it already. The Sindar were sitting right there and though she knew they did not understand, it still seemed to lack in tact and decency.

"Findaráto, Fingolfin, the Feanorians, they are all in another king's territory." Angaráto said, accentuating each syllable. "And he is not one to be messed about with, this…" he almost said Thingol's name but paused, noticing how the two Sindarin heads kept bobbing up at each mention of their king's name, "king," he said instead.

"I am still sour with you over that. Do not think I have forgotten." Artanis said, furrowing her brow and pushing food about on her earthenware plate. It had not been fair at all. Her older brothers were always running off doing exciting things with Turgon and Fingon and she was always left behind with the women and, worse, the babies, which she didn't even like. She had braved the Helcaraxe and she could shoot better than any of them, even her father said so, yet they were always leaving her behind. They never said it directly, yet she knew the reason and saw past their excuses; they were frightened of her visions, just as her parents had always been, frightened that she would fall and hurt herself, frightened that they would not be able to deal with her when she entered that state of mind. Recently the visions were getting worse and still she could not manage to control them, was not even sure if it could be done.

"Aikanáro and I had to ride fast. We could not waste time. Besides, we were unsure of whether or not we would be welcomed." Angaráto dismissed her anger.

"I am a faster rider than either of you and you know it!" She scowled.

"It has been fourteen years," her brother laughed, "surely you cannot still hung up on that little sister." He put her off again. "And, furthermore, if I recall correctly it was with great joy that you greeted us upon our return."

"Only because I wished to hear the tales of your journey and because you were a welcome alternative to them," she nodded towards her cousins at the end of the table. "You went to Menegroth without me and you knew how much I wanted to go and how much I wanted to meet the Sindar." She said, her voice rising. The two Sindarin heads bobbed up again at the mention of their capital city.

"Artanis," Angaráto took her elbow, "keep your voice down. It wasn't as though we excluded you intentionally, we merely did not think to ask you."

"That is the problem Angaráto, I am always an afterthought," she said drolly, sipping from her wine. Her brother was on the verge of a reply when the two Sindar cut into the conversation, perhaps having sensed the tension that had arisen between the siblings. Dairon looked at them expectantly and said something but Artanis and Angaráto were at a loss as they were ignorant of the languages of the elves of Middle Earth, most of all, the language of the Sindar, having directly dealt with them the least of all.

While Artanis and Angaráto frantically tried to understand, the Sindar seemed not to share their anxiety, merely staring at them with kind and somewhat hopeful faces. "Could you repeat yourself?" Angaráto asked hopefully.

"Aikanáro, you don't need to speak so slowly and loudly. They aren't deaf!" Artanis hissed.

"What do you want to know?" She asked, shrugging her shoulders and throwing her hands up as if to pantomime incomprehension. Mablung laughed and said something but they still could not understand. The Sindar laughed again and Dairon drew out a piece of paper and a charcoal pencil, drawing two figures. One was a circle with lines coming out of it and the other was a plain circle with five-pointed stars surrounding it. He pointed towards the sun and then placed his finger on the circle with lines.

"Oh he means the sun," Angaráto said, pointing at the sun himself to confirm. Dairon nodded enthusiastically. He pointed at the drawing of the sun again and then at the real sun, pantomiming it moving across the sky, then he pointed at the other drawing and did the same thing. Artanis and Aikanáro stared blankly for a moment and then Dairon repeated the gesture while Mablung said something in Sindarin. Then they both imitated the questioning gesture that Artanis had made.

"I think he means the sun and the moon," Artanis said to Aikanáro. She repeated Dairon's gestures and then pointed to the two drawings. He nodded but still seemed a bit puzzled. Turning the slip of paper over he drew a mass of stars on it and then pointed up at the sky, moving his hands as if to show that there were thousands of stars up there. Next, he drew a round circle on the piece of paper amongst the stars then pointed up at the sky, drawing a circle in the air with his finger. He pantomimed a look of surprise then and, suddenly, Artanis understood.

"The sky was dark and there were only stars then, poof, the moon appeared! They saw the moon and the sun moving across the sky. They want to know where the moon and the sun came from!" She said, excitedly, repeating Dairon's motions. The elf smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

Artanis took the paper from Dairon and began to draw. First, she drew the two trees of Valinor and drew rays of light emanating from them. This seemed somewhat incredulous to Dairon and Mablung and they poured over this drawing for some time.

"Thingol," Dairon said, pointing to the trees.

"Yes, yes, Thingol has seen them." Artanis said and they seemed to have reached some sort of understanding.

"Ernil, Celeborn Ernil." Beleg said, pointing at one of the trees.

"What does he mean?" Artanis turned to her brother.

"Celeborn is the prince of Doriath, do you recall? I met him briefly when I was there, but did not speak to him much as he does not speak Quenya. Ernil….I know I have heard that before." Angaráto pointed at himself. "Ernil?" He asked and Dairon nodded. Then he pointed to Findaráto and Aikanáro, further down the table. "Ernil?" He asked again and Dairon nodded again. Angaráto pointed to Artanis. "Ernil?" Dairon shook his head.

"Riel," Beleg said. "Ernil, Ernil, Ernil, Riel." He said, pointing to each of Artanis's brothers and then her.

"Celeborn Ernil?" Angaráto asked, pointing at the drawing of the trees. Mablung laughed raucously and shook his head. When the two Sindar stopped laughing they began the explanation again.

"Celeborn," Mablung said, pointing at one of the trees. "Glawar," he said, pointing to the other. "Celeborn," he said pointing back at the other tree.

"They call one of the trees Celeborn and the other Glawar," Artanis said.

"I think so," Angaráto replied. "And only Thingol has ever seen them. They lived in darkness here until the rising of the sun and the moon. But which tree is which?"

"Celeborn. Celeborn Ernil," Dairon said, then pointed at the tree again.

"Celeborn Ernil?" Angaráto asked, taking a strand of his own golden hair between his fingers and tugging on it. "Menegroth, Celeborn Ernil?" Mablung nodded then pointed at the tree again.

"Celeb, orn," he said, then he took out his mithril dagger, pointing at the silver blade. "Celeb," he said. Then he pointed at one of the beech trees behind them. "Orn," he said.

"Celeborn is Telperion, the silver tree," Artanis said, the realization dawning over her. "And the prince of Doriath is named Celeborn."

"Yes, I think they are trying to say that he was named after the silver tree, and that Thingol named him after seeing the trees. He has silver hair." Angaráto said.

"Is he Thingol's son?" She asked and her brother shook his head.

"His nephew," Angaráto replied. Mablung pushed the paper back towards Artanis, gesturing for her to continue her story. She drew the great spider, Ungoliant, and showed her piercing the trees, draining them of their light, and then she crossed them out, drawing them dying. She could tell by their gasp of horror that the Sindar understood and they began to whisper between themselves. Artanis continued, drawing Yavanna and Aule creating the sun and moon out of Telperion's silver flower and Laurelin's golden fruit. She then drew these two moving across the sky and the Sindar seemed satisfied, sitting back and sighing mournfully. They continued to talk amongst themselves for a few moments and then Dairon turned to Artanis once more and asked her something, raising his hands to his eyes as if weeping mournfully.

"Was it sad?" She asked. "Yes, it was very sad indeed." She motioned crying and the Sindar nodded gravely.

"I like them very much indeed!" She said later, after the feast had disbanded and she had been forced to speak to her much-loathed cousins. "I do wish that I could have gone with them. I should so much like to see Menegroth."

Findaráto laughed at her enthusiasm. "As should I little sister. Perhaps we may one day go together, hm?"

"I should like that very much," She said. "Angaráto said that it is a place of wonders: a thousand caves and each one of them a magical living forest. Melian is as beautiful as the dawn and as terrible as an earthquake. Thingol is wise beyond measure and the Prince Celeborn exceedingly clever. Then there is Luthien, the princess, and she can sing like the birds and dance in a way that enchants all who see her. She is nearly my age too, imagine, we might become friends!"

"Is that so?" Findaráto asked. "Well," he said, turning towards his sister and favoring her with his kind eyes. "As you know, I am not like Aikanáro and Angaráto, content to follow Fingon and Fingolfin into the Northlands. And, when at last I am ready to build my own kingdom I intend to go to Thingol to ask him permission."

"When you are ready?" Artanis said, laughing, "brother, you have talked of nothing but founding your own kingdom since first we arrived yet twenty something years have passed and still we wander about as nomads, living here and there."

"It has to be exactly right you see." Findaráto said with a wink.

"The place? And how will you know that it is exactly right?" She queried.

"Because I will! Because I will just know!" He said, taking her hands and spinning her about in a circle while she laughed. Despite their differences, Artanis did love her brothers very much and, most of all, Findaráto was her favorite.

*****

"This is very finely wrought Frerin," Celeborn said, holding up the glittering chainmail, admiring its delicate yet strong craftsmanship in the light of the fire from the forges. The smithies had never been his favorite place; something about not being able to see the trees and sky, or at least the likeness of them, bothered him and he had always had a particular aversion to fire. Yet, he knew how much the dwarves from Nogrod coveted the king's recommendation and Celeborn was the king's ears. He hefted the mail, amazed at how light it was.

"Ho ho! I am very glad to hear that, very glad indeed," the dwarf said, the trinkets in his braided beard jingling as he laughed. "But you do not like armor do you Master Celeborn?" He asked, reaching out to take back the mail a little more quickly than was polite, almost as if he half expected Celeborn to steal it.

"I wear it when Thingol requires it of me, but truth be told I prefer leather. Yet there are many of the wardens, and the king himself, who I am sure would be glad for the protection that such quality dwarven mail can offer," Celeborn replied with a smile.

"Celeborn of the trees. You and Beleg," Frerin said, "there's a green elf bent to the both of you, and there was to that Amdir too." And, though he was smiling there was a hint of dissatisfaction in his voice. It was one thing that set Celeborn ill at ease when the dwarves of Nogrod were around, that tendency to be dissatisfied with anything other than exactly what they wished. He much preferred when it had been the dwarves of Belegost who had resided in Menegroth.

"Whatever my personal preferences may be," Celeborn said, "I know fine work when I see it and I shall be glad to give my recommendation to the king on your behalf if that would be agreeable."

"A purchase order would be more agreeable," the dwarf said bluntly. "My people have done fine work here and we are growing tired of these continual delays."

"I understand your concerns," Celeborn told him "but you must understand that my people do not do things in the same way as yours. It is not uncommon for such things to take them awhile." However, in the back of his mind he was beset with doubts, for it seemed that the dwarves believed Thingol had made them some promise about purchasing their wares and Celeborn began to worry that Thingol may indeed have done just that and then neglected to inform him. The king had a regrettable habit of making promises when he was in exceptionally good spirits and then not following through on them later.

"Not everyone has all the ages of the world to wait about," the dwarf glowered. "If you mean to come here and tell me that you, you who has the king's ear, you who are the king's hand, cannot do anything about this situation then I shall have to call you a liar sir," the dwarf huffed.

"You would be correct to say so," Celeborn said with an uneasy laugh. "Peace, Frerin. I shall speak to the king on your behalf and I assure you that this situation shall be soon remedied."

"So much for the promises of elves," the prince heard the dwarf huff as he left the smithies.

"Look at her! Isn't she spectacular?" Thingol asked, watching as Luthien bounded about the hall with the other revelers in a wild dance. He and Celeborn sat together upon a pile of cushions, leaning against a pillar, well into their cups. All about the hall the inhabitants of Menegroth, both elven and dwarven were doing the same, feasting and reclining and making merry, for today was a particularly special day: Luthien's begetting day.

"Of course she is. There is none finer," Celeborn said with a grin, assuaging the king's fierce pride in his daughter as he refilled both of their cups with cold beer.

"You know," said Thingol, pointing at Celeborn with a finger made less steady by the amount of alcohol that he had imbibed, "I still recall with exquisite vividness the night that she was conceived."

"Uncle!" Celeborn laughed, shaking his head. "There are certain things that I neither desire nor need to know."

"Just you wait nephew, one day you too shall know the joys of fathering a child and then you shall know exactly what I am talking about," Thingol said with a grin.

"I fear not Uncle," Celeborn said, "for I am well past the marrying age now and I have no luck with the ladies."

"A greater lie I have never heard," Thingol said with a booming laugh. "There is not a single woman in this city who does not secretly wish for an offer of courtship from you and many a married one as well I would reckon," he said with a wink while Celeborn shook his head in mock exasperation at his uncle's teasing. "How can you not be interested in any of them?"

"I have plenty of experience uncle, if that is what you are implying," Celeborn said. "Too much perhaps. I find that I have had an aversion to courtship entirely for the past few decades."

"It would not be wise to extrapolate your experiences with Venessiel onto all women Celeborn. I assure you that not everyone is like her, most are not like her in fact."

"When I find the right woman I shall be sure to let you know uncle," Celeborn said dismissively, taking a long drink from his glass of beer and ardently wishing this conversation were over.

"You know," Thingol said with a conspiratory glance. "This Artanis who travels here with her brother Findaráto, the Finarfinians, she is said to be a rare beauty and to possess a very keen mind. Dairon and Mablung sang her praises after returning from the Mereth Aderthad; hair like spun gold, eyes like the stars, a smile of pure radiance they said."

"I ought not refill your glass for I can see how drunken you must be to suggest such a thing," Celeborn said, even as he poured fresh beer into his uncle's goblet. "A Noldo?" He shook his head. "All I have heard of them has been arrogance. Besides, I care not for golden hair. Cease with this business of pairing me off, I beg of you!" The two of them laughed, reveling in the merriment of the evening, the joy of the music, and the heady feeling of alcohol in their veins.

"As a matter of fact," Celeborn said, "there is something about which I have been meaning to speak to you."

"Celeborn, I am trying to enjoy these festivities," Thingol said, disgruntled, waving his hand about, "this, this celebration in honor of my daughter's begetting day and I can tell from the tone of your voice that you intend to speak to me of some loathsome political topic."

"All the more reason to get it out of the way quickly then," Celeborn said with a smile while his uncle made an attempt to glower at him.

"You plied me with beer," Thingol said accusingly.

"The dwarves are restless," Celeborn told him.

"I thought that was what you were going to say," Thingol said with a sigh.

"You can't put it off forever. You did, after all, employ them to craft things and now that they have crafted what you asked for you delay their orders and their payment. They have a perfectly logical argument."

"I did not lure them under false pretenses," said Thingol, growing agitated. "It was they who wished to come here to use our smithies and I who provided them with an opportunity to do so. I owe them nothing. I should throw them all out." There was a brooding look in his eyes now as he surveyed his mug of beer.

Celeborn pressed his fingertips together and pursed his lips while he considered how best to present the issue to his uncle, frustrated with him. Though, it was not as if he had expected a different answer; when pushed, Thingol generally pushed back reflexively and aggressively, even when it would have been better for him to compromise. Celeborn frequently saw the beginnings of the same reactionism in himself, no doubt a result of the fact that it had been his uncle who had raised him. Indeed, he had acquired many of Thingol's mannerisms, for better and for worse, but, in seeing the harm that was occasionally brought to Doriath by his uncle's reactionary temperament, Celeborn continually strove to mediate his own.

"You saw how many soldiers Denethor lost in the war due to their weak armor and primitive weapons. The blades of our axes were crafted by the dwarves and the heads of our arrows as well. The superiority of dwarven made weapons have been proven, the armor will prove itself as well."

"And our bows were more powerful, our armor, both leather and mail, more sturdy, all crafted by Sindarin artisans. It is not entirely because of the work of the dwarves that we prevailed. If the dwarves wish to utilize our smithies then I shall be happy to have them but it does not mean that I am compelled to buy their wares. Dwarven made armor…" Thingol shook his head.

"Not ready?" Celeborn felt the anger bubbling within him and struggled to force it back down. "Then when, pray tell, is the proper time? Perhaps lives could have been saved with such armor, for it seems to me more sturdy than what we have now. We may have won the war, and we certainly did not suffer casualties as severe as Denethor did, but you cannot deny that our losses were not great. You know as well as I do that something is afoot, something dire, else why would the Noldor have come from Aman? Indeed, this you have confided in me. These are strange times and dangerous ones too. Melian has said as much, should we not heed her warnings? It would behoove us to make ready before we have need to be so. The next war may be more dangerous still." He had done his best to suppress his frustration yet he had not been completely successful and the hints of his anger had bled out into his tone.

"Watch yourself nephew," Thingol said with a glare, his jaw tensed. He eyed Celeborn for a long moment before continuing and Celeborn felt his heart sinking, for he knew by that familiar look that his anger had put his uncle off and Thingol was now all the more likely to reject his petition. "This is about more than practicality; it is about history, about culture. Our people barely like metal armor at all. They are certainly not ready for that crafted by dwarves. It is too drastic of a change for them. None of them want it, would you even wear it?"

"I would be willing to try it," Celeborn said, but he had paused too long and Thingol had read in that silence his unwillingness.

"Would you?" Thingol laughed and shook his head. "Don't play false with me nephew."

"I would try it," Celeborn repeated himself, firmly this time.

"And Mablung, Beleg, have you spoken to them?"

"Mablung said he would think about it."

"Think about it? And Beleg?"

"He thinks that it is too cumbersome to be useful," Celeborn admitted, "but it need only be used in times of war. And besides, might it not be better to part with a little silver and retain the loyalty of the dwarves of Nogrod than to turn them away angry? We might need them as allies."

"No," Thingol shook his silver head. "No. Celeborn, I have heard enough of this." He held up his hand to stop his nephew's protests. "This has gone on for far too many years and you have come to me asking for a decision so, very well, I will tarry no longer. Frerin is out of line to demand such a thing. My answer is no and that is final. No one wants dwarven armor and no one needs dwarven armor."

And Celeborn stood, making to depart from that place, for Thingol was not the only one who was quick of temper. "Your highness," he said tersely, bowing before he departed.


	3. People of the Night

  
**People of the Night**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 3rd Chapter

*****

"A king there was in days of old:  
ere Men yet walked upon the mould  
his power was reared in caverns’ shade,  
his hand was over glen and glade.  
Of leaves his crown, his mantle green,  
His silver lances long and keen;  
The starlight in his shield was caught,  
Ere moon was made or sun was wrought.”  
_\- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lay of Leithian_

*****

Findaráto’s advisors remained silent. No one wished to disturb the tenuous hold that the princes maintained over the exiles. The slightest disturbance threatened to throw all of them into a mutinous disorder. Such a thing... Fear lurked among them, the fear that they might all be capable of what Fëanor and his sons had done. That, in an instant, disagreement might set all of the survivors at each other’s throats, that princes might kill subjects, subjects kill their princes, fathers kill sons and brothers kill brothers. But 50 years ago they would never even have understood the concept of such a thing. Now it seemed all too probable. The weight of paranoia hung in the air like ash and smoke, thick, suffocating, and only Artanis was bold or foolish enough to speak.

“Don’t play false with us Findaráto!” She spat, crossing her arms over her chest, her blue eyes lit with some unearthly ardor. “Can you not see that the future of our people stands upon the edge of a knife? The smallest misstep may bring disaster. I, at least, have not forgotten the bloodshed that disagreement brings. Have you?”

“Of course I have not!” Findaráto seethed. He loved his sister but at this very moment he was furious with her that she would dare challenge him before his advisors over a matter that he had thought was already decided. He knew that tensions were running high, that half their anger was fueled by the hunger that gnawed at their stomachs, that the stress of the trials they had endured was driving them to discord.

“Then do not pretend as if you and you alone have the right to decide on this matter,” Artanis retorted. “You only wish to keep it secret because of your own selfish ambitions, because you think Thingol will not grant you leave to found your kingdom if he knew what had happened.”

“Have you not considered that I am thinking of what is best for all of us?” Findaráto said. “If Thingol knew then what would become of Fingolfin’s people? And you know as well as I that the sons of Fëanor will not heed any decree that Thingol might pass, nor will they evacuate the lands he had granted to them even if he commands it. It would bring war, Artanis, if Thingol knew. If you wish to go to Menegroth with me then you will abide by my decision. If not then you are free to follow Fingolfin’s people or to go into the north with our brothers.” He had never spoken so harshly to his sister before and ordinarily would never have done so, but the events of the past few years had been far too much to bear and Findaráto could feel the weight of them as heavy upon his shoulders as a yoke. And of course at this very moment when he felt what little control he had over their predicament begin to slip, Artanis had decided to be troublesome.

“She is right, Findaráto. Lies and half-truths seem a poor defense against future bloodshed. Indeed, they very well might cause a resurgence of it.” Angaráto began, speaking in his sister’s defense, but he could not continue before Artanis interrupted him, her anger flaring out again.

“How are you any different than Fëanor? He destroyed the lives of others to achieve his own ends. Now you seek to conceal this secret from the Sindar so that Thingol will grant you the right to found your own realm. And what of the Sindar? What if they inadvertently come between the Fëanorions and the Silmarils? They would be slaughtered like their Teleri brethren, unaware of the reason for which they are dying and unprepared to defend themselves,” she fumed and there was a sharp intake of breath. Even amongst those who agreed with her, comparing her brother to Fëanor was a step too far. And besides, the kinslaying had become a rather taboo subject, one they all privately acknowledged but never spoke of, as if to voice the matter alone would bring the curse of Mandos down upon them all the more quickly.

Findaráto took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. It hurt that Artanis would speak to him this way, Artanis his dearly beloved sister. They had ever been of a like mind and he had thought that they had devised this plan together, that it was their shared dream to found this kingdom, that they had wanted the same things. What was more, he loved her dearly. For the past few months food had been especially scarce and he had given half of his own meager portion to Artanis so that she might not suffer so terribly, and yet still she accused him of being no more kind hearted than foul Fëanor.

“It is the will of the Valar,” he said to her at last. “I have seen it in a vision sent to be my Ulmo himself. I have been ordained to build a hidden city, a refuge and stronghold lest Morgoth break froth from Angband. This is about the survival of our people, Artanis, and I will not put that in jeopardy for the sake of your opinion.”

“And I have had visions of my own,” Artanis retorted, still angry, fire flashing in her eyes. “You cannot blindly trust what has been shown to you, Findaráto. Visions can be dangerous things…”

“Whether the illness that plagues you is foresight or some other madness I cannot say,” Findaráto spat, at last loosing his patience with her entirely. “Perhaps you are going mad, Artanis, have you thought of that?” He regretted his words almost as soon as he had spoken them, for they were very cruel, and he could see already in his sister’s eyes that he had injured her terribly.

“I can hear no more of this, I cannot,” Artanis growled, turning and marching away to be on her own and of all of them only Angaráto turned to watch her go, for his heart was troubled as well and his mind held more to his sister’s opinion. 

“Please, leave us,” Findaráto said in exasperation, raising a hand to his advisors as he let his head fall and sighed. They needed no further urging from their prince to return to their encampment, for the quarrel that had erupted from the council had brought up matters of which they preferred not to speak.

“Brother, please, not another word,” Findaráto said when at last they had left, turning to Angaráto. “I know you are of the same mind as her but we haven’t any other choice in this matter.” As their older brother paced back and forth, Angaráto’s eyes met Aikanáro’s and they both shook their heads. When Artanis and Findaráto fought there would be no compromise.

Findaráto stopped his pacing at last, glancing towards the campfires burning in the near distance where his people gathered round preparing what meager food they had. At the edges of the encampment the men were readying the horses, making everything presentable for tomorrow, when Findaráto and Artanis were to journey towards Menegroth, parting with Fingolfin’s people and their two brothers. Further still from the encampment sat Artanis, having chosen to retreat to the spot furthest away from him, out of spite no doubt. 

She was clothed like a male in leggings, a tunic, and a short and well-worn cape, the hood of which she pushed back, revealing the messily piled hair upon her head. The mud of the journey was still caked to her bare feet and stained her clothes. Findaráto felt his ire rising again. She ought to be helping the women cook, encouraging them as a princess should. She had not even bothered to mind her appearance lately, letting herself run wild, when her beauty might have been a comfort to their people, who struggled in a foreign land. Instead she sat in isolation, pretending at philosophy, sulking most likely, neglecting to fulfill her royal duty and still there were the days when she collapsed in convulsions, shaking and trembling beyond the power of any of them to help her. As much as he loved his sister, she was still a child in so many ways.

“Brother she is young. Too young to have seen what she has seen. It has changed her already and she struggles to bear the burden. Can you not see it?” Angaráto sighed, coming to stand beside Findaráto. 

“We all bear that burden!” Findaráto said. “But now, of all times, we cannot allow such things to cloud our judgment and overcome our reason. We must remain vigilant. This is the duty of a king. We must not sink under our burdens as the common folk but must rise in greatness in direct proportion to the challenge of our difficulties.”

“She is far wiser than you give her credit for.” Angaráto said.

“I...” Findaráto, seated himself next to his brother on a fallen log, softening. “I know that she is wise. It is...it is why I push her so. I would not ask of her what I thought she was incapable of delivering. I ask more of her than almost anyone else because I know that she is capable of more than almost anyone else.”

“But she does not understand that.” Angaráto replied. “Despite her beauty and her youth, you know that she has not led the easiest life. Oftentimes, that is all that people see in her. They do not bother to look beyond the exterior. Can you imagine what it must feel like for others to place their value of you in your hroa rather than in your fëa? Forgive me brother, if I seem presumptuous, but I, at least, have observed how it has changed her over the years. It has made her harder, created within her a certain bitterness, a resentment, a cruelty even. She trusts no one. Have you not seen it? She believes that no one takes her opinions seriously, and you have not exactly given her reason to believe otherwise.”

“What am I to do with her?” Findaráto said at last with a sigh. “Her…visions…they are getting worse, far worse. Hardly a day goes by anymore when she does not collapse, convulsing. She cannot control them, not in the slightest. I have my doubts, serious doubts, about taking her with me to Menegroth. It may not matter that everyone is sworn to secrecy; it may be that one day she will collapse in one of her fits and divulge the entire secret for everyone to hear. How can we trust her when she could so easily and accidentally betray us?” 

“Brother…” Angaráto said and Findaráto turned, to find his sister standing behind him, her eyes brimming with tears. She had come to make amends and here he had only spoken against her further.

“Artanis…I…” Findaráto stumbled over his words.

“No,” she said, raising a hand, “you have said quite enough.” And she turned, making her way back to her own tent once more. Findaráto sighed, defeated at last, and raised his hands to his head.

“Why does she have to be this way?” He said exasperatedly and Angaráto laughed.

“Because she is our mother’s daughter,” he said. “But go to her Findaráto,” he placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Whatever troubles the two of you have had in the past you know that she loves you the best of any of us. Things will be well again between the two of you before long.”

“Very well,” Findaráto said with a sigh, clasping his brother’s hand before he stalked off across the camp, coming at last to his sister’s tent. “Artanis,” he called softly and, receiving no answer, he sighed again and ducked into the tent. 

His sister was sitting there on her cot and she gave him a dark look as he entered. “I didn’t say you could come in,” she said. 

“I’m very aware,” Findaráto replied, seating himself beside her on the cot. Silence stretched between them, each waiting for the other to speak, and at last he said, “Artanis I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

She nodded stiffly. In the glow of the lantern he could see the red rimming her eyes and knew that she had been crying, not that proud Artanis would ever admit to that. “It’s just…” she said at last, her voice shakier than usual, “I came here because I wanted something different than Aman, Findaráto.” She sighed and turned to look at him. “But now I’m starting to feel as if it will all just be the same, as if this were all for nothing.” She clasped her hands together and then let them fall. “I want things of my own. I want…I want to be treated the same as you, and Angaráto, and Aikanaro. I want to be a queen, and to have all the power and authority that a king has, but I feel like I’m just going to be stuffed away in some corner, just a pretty decoration, nothing more.” She clasped her hands together before her lips for a moment and then let them fall.

Findaráto gave her a smile, trying to cheer her up. “Things will be different, Artanis, I promise you,” he said. “That’s why I’m trying to do this. I know you don’t like the idea of not telling the Sindar of the kinslaying…but it’s the only way to change things. If we can earn Thingol’s favor then he will give us leave to found our own kingdom, you and me together, and I’ll grant you equal powers, we’ll rule jointly…”

“That’s just the thing,” Artanis interrupted. “I want to rule by my right and not because anyone grants it to me.” 

Findaráto sighed, thinking for a moment, but could conjure no reply. After all, what his sister wanted, what she was asking for…it was simply not the way that the world worked and he could hardly change the world. Even he, a prince of Aman, would have to ask Thingol’s permission to found a kingdom. At last he reached out, squeezing her hand.

“Artanis,” he said, “I promise that we’ll tell Thingol, not right away, but we will tell him when the time is right. Does that suit you?”

She was silent for a moment and then nodded, squeezing his hand in return, but still she did not smile.

*****

This morning they had spent a great deal of time in preparation and Artanis had sat patiently, trying her very best to not let her anticipation get the best of her, as the ladies flitted about like butterflies, plaiting her golden hair in a myriad of braids which they arranged in elaborate patterns upon her head, pinning them up with hairpins tipped in flaming red rubies and diamonds that glittered like stars. She much preferred to have her hair long and loose but she knew that Findaráto wanted Thingol to be very impressed at the sight of them and so she had to look the part of a proper Finwëan princess.

The ladies tilted her face up and she obediently closed her eyes as they rouged her cheeks and drew lines of kohl about her eyes. She liked finery but the gown of richly brocaded red velvet embroidered with gold thread to show scenes from the creation of Arda was far more constricting than what she normally wore and she sighed, wishing she could simply wear breeches and a tunic. The Green Elves when barefoot, why couldn’t she? They fitted her crown atop her head, a troublesome creation of gold from which blazed forth the colored light of thousands of gems, and draped a thick mantel of snowy white satin lined with ermine fur over her shoulders. The summers of Beleriand were not particularly hot but she was already sweltering beneath this finery and could feel a bead of sweat begin to trickle its way down her spine as she stood at last and stepped into slippers of gold and glass. All of this was so impractical here in Middle Earth.

And yet, when she looked into the mirror that one of the women offered her, she could no help but be pleased by her reflection, the corners of her lips curling upwards in a smile. She did look like a queen and, now that she was here in Middle Earth, the chance of becoming one in earnest seemed far more real. Thingol would certainly be impressed, she thought, setting the mirror down before she moved to step out of the tent. 

Findaráto’s face split into a wide grin as he saw her and Artanis laughed in greeting. She was glad for her brother’s smile, glad that they had at last put their squabbles behind them, and while she was displeased that Findaráto’s decision to withhold news of the kinslaying has stood, she was very happy indeed that they had made things well between them again. 

Findaráto was dressed finely as well, wearing a gleaming golden crown set with sparkling stones, dressed in his best clothes. And yet, as Artanis surveyed their traveling party, she saw that even their finery could not quite conceal the sorrow and toil that they had endured, for their eyes spoke something of it, even if their clothing did not, and their bones still stood out more prominently than they should, reminder of the harsh winter spent in the wild.

“Well!” Findaráto exclaimed as she mounted her palfrey. “You are certainly a sight for sore eyes, sister! Thingol’s queen may be a Maia but I’ll wager they have never seen the likes of you. You’ll have a long line of Sindarin suitors, I’m sure.” He laughed but Artanis only rolled her eyes, adjusting her seat in the saddle as the servants collapsed the last of the tents.

“I’ve only just escaped all my suitors,” Artanis laughed. “Why ever would I want any more of them? And you know how much I despise courtship.” The last of the fires had been doused and the last of the tents packed away and so they started on their journey at last. Artanis felt the flutter of excitement in her heart as she urged her horse forward. She could hardly believe that at long last she was about to see Doriath and the wonders of Menegroth. She wondered if Elwë would still look the same as Olwë had remembered him.

“You know, Artanis,” Findaráto said cheerfully as he rode by her side. “Courtship does not have to be so awful.”

“It does when everyone who wants to court you is awful,” Artanis quipped. 

“How can every prince in Valinor be so awful that you didn’t like a single one of them?” Findaráto asked, shaking his head. “Some of them seemed very suitable to me, and you seemed to take a liking to Celebrimbor…or so I thought.”

“Don’t talk to me of Celebrimbor,” Artanis said, decidedly unamused as she cast a glare over at her brother. “He turned out to be just like the rest of them. And of course you don’t understand it at all – you’re a man.”

“And that precludes me from understanding?” Findaráto chuckled, raising an eyebrow at his irritated sister.

“Yes!” Artanis replied adamantly. “All the princes of Valinor want is a pretty girl to make them look good. I’m not saying they aren’t kind people, but they want someone who will defer to them, who won’t cause trouble. Do you think I could ever be happy like that Findaráto? I want things of my own, lands of my own, and if I am to rule then I would rule with someone who will treat me as his equal. You know how much scorn mother has garnered for daring to speak out about princes, for opposing father even. You know how father has been ridiculed as weak for marrying someone who dares to speak her mind. And did Fëanor even once listen to Nerdanel? She used to be so adventuresome before he chained her and she had to leave him before she could be free again. No.” She shook her head. “I’ll not have that for myself. If I marry it will be to someone who heeds my counsel, who will not overrule my judgment, who will treat me as his equal.”

“You may be waiting for a very long time in that case,” Findaráto replied. If looks could kill then the one his sister gave him would certainly have rendered him dead.

“Do you want me to be unhappy then?” Artanis asked.

“Of course not,” Findaráto laughed, reaching out to take her hand. “And don’t get so angry over it Artanis. If that is what you want then I want that for you. Perhaps you’ll find such a man amongst the Sindarin princes.” He gave her a cheeky wink, once more the target of her glower.

“It’s a wonder you can joke about such a thing,” Artanis said. “To lie with…to bind my fëa to that of a…a…dark elf would be an affront to the Valar themselves. Her skin crawled at the thought. 

“Oh and now you suddenly decide to have some respect for the Valar?” Findaráto said, laughing loud and long, but their conversation continued no further, for a very strange sight was now before them. A towering wall of billowing mist rose clear up to the clouds, so tall that it never seemed to end, and it stretched out in either direction far beyond what their eyes could see. “The girdle of Melian…” Findaráto said, his voice whisper of awe, his eyes wide in amazement as he dismounted, holding out his hand into the mist. It coiled about his arm as if it were a living breathing creature and then withdrew once more. “Say what you want about Sindarin men Artanis,” Findaráto said with a laugh, turning back to his sister, “but only a Sindarin man has ever managed to marry a goddess.”

Artanis didn’t bother to remind her brother that Thingol, after all, had seen the light of the two trees, and waited until he mounted his horse again to continue. But no matter how far they traveled, there seemed to be no way around it and, whichever way they turned they found themselves arriving back in the same place as every path turned back upon itself. They dared not venture any further into the mist for fear of being separated, for it was so thick that they could not see through it and furthermore their way was obscured by shadows that concealed the path.

“It is a labyrinth,” Findaráto said, admitting defeat at last.

“I thought we would be allowed to pass, as our brothers were,” Artanis said, puzzled, dismounting as the people began to make camp for the night. 

“I do not know…” Findaráto said, his eyes wandering amongst their people. Artanis understood her brother’s discontent. This was the last thing they needed. After half a century spent living in the wilderness they had been looking forward to the delights of a real city, of hot baths, of proper food and the luxuries of civilization. To be denied this after having expected it was a cruel blow and she could sense the tension and restlessness amongst their people at the disappointment.

Having expected to feast in Menegroth that night, and having run low on game themselves, there was not much for them to eat but what little they had was made into stew and dished out in equal portions to all. But when Artanis had finished her portion her stomach was still growling in hunger and she was glad, at least, for the privacy of her tent as she seated herself on her cot. She felt a jolt of anger shoot through her at the thought that she had eagerly looked forward to sleeping in a bed tonight. 

Was it really too much to ask for a little bit of comfort after the horror of the Helcaraxë and fifty years spent wandering homeless in Beleriand with precious little to eat, nary a drop of hot water, and rags for clothes? At the time she had been furious with Findaráto for forcing her to put away this, her last good dress, but now she understood the practicality of it. Had she not saved this one she would have had nothing to wear before Thingol. All her other gowns were in tatters now, turned to rags by the harshness of this land. She brushed her fingers over the red velvet for a moment before she reached up and pulled the crown from her head, tossing it angrily onto her cot. 

Why had the Sindar shut them out, why? Artanis rarely cried but now she could feel tears of anger and frustration rising at the corners of her eyes and she reached up to blot them away. Thingol was her grandfather’s brother and yet here he was treating them as if they were nothing more than outlaws. Angrily she reached up and began to pull her hairpins loose. How dare he! Could he not understand how weary her people were or did he simply not care? She had heard the Sindar were a callous people. It must be true. She tossed the hairpins down on the cot, a glittering pile of rubies and diamonds, and that was when the screaming started.

*****

Celeborn would have known that the sounding of the great horn in the deep meant the Noldor had approached even if Lúthien hadn’t been frantically hammering at his door. “Come on! Come on!” He heard her exclaim before one of his pages admitted her to his chambers and she came in in a flurry, like an autumn leaf caught in a gust of wind, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her pack of hounds scampering eagerly about her in a vortex of fur and slobber.

“Oh cousin I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long and of course you’re going to go and delay us! The march wardens are almost ready!” Lúthien exclaimed, her gray eyes alight with excitement as she bounded about her kinsman’s rooms.

“Did you really have to bring all of your hairy beasts with you?” Celeborn asked, watching with dismay as one of his cousin’s hounds immediately began to chew on a bow he had not yet finished carving, while he clasped a collar of Mahogany, polished to the highest sheen and inlaid with cherry wood in the design of leaves, about his neck.

“Oh what’s the matter?” Lúthien said, rolling her eyes with a grin before she took the offending dog’s face in her hands and pressed a kiss to its forehead. “They want to go too. They’ve been ever so excited.” Thingol had asked them to dress not in the courtly manner, but in the ancient one, holding it as a sign of respect and of kinship, a calling back to the days when all of the elven clans had walked these lands together before the great sundering. And so Lúthien had spent nearly the entire day painting the history of her lineage across her entire body in black kohl in elegantly detailed cirth script. It provided a startling contrast to her pale skin. Celeborn found himself mildly envious of her penmanship. Had he tried such a thing it would not have looked nearly so nice. 

Lúthien wore a close-fitting vest of gray homespun and tan leather, the same as the march wardens wore. Her hair was not the silver of her father, Thingol, but the midnight dark of her mother and she wore it simply, tumbling down her back in black waves. Her eyes, gray as twilight, bright and full with the magic of her Maian mother twinkled as she turned them to her cousin once more.

“Celeborn, this is the most exciting day of my life and you’re delaying it,” she said with a sigh.

“The most exciting day of your life?” Celeborn laughed. He was dressed in leggings of a rich moss green, bare chested except for a breastplate of slatted bone, his skin painted a smoky greenish gray, and across the muscles of his bare chest rippled black letters and runes which told the tale of his history and lineage. On his bare back was painted a silver tree and his face too was painted with lines of black kohl.

“I’m surprised at your low standards Lu. You know as well as I do what they’re here for, trying to usurp Thingol’s authority and take over Sindarin lands.”

“Oh but the two who came before were so very handsome and charming,” Lúthien said with a wink.

“Is that honestly all you’re concerned about?” He asked with a laugh, but Lúthien ignored his comment.

“Did Galathil do your runes?” His cousin asked. Celeborn nodded in reply, eyes as green as leaves stared back at him in the mirror as he struggled to fixed his eagle feathers in his hair. Most of it he had left long, bright and shining silver like the stars themselves, living mark of his royal ancestry, but part of it he had bound in a long braid and now he was trying to affix the feathers to it but they wouldn’t stay.

“Here, let me,” Lúthien said with a sigh, but he was so tall she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach. “Really Celeborn, I’ve never met anyone as vain about their hair as you are.” She at last managed to get the feathers fixed properly and handed him his gray cloak, which he clasped about his shoulders. 

“I just want to make a good first impression,” he said, turning towards his cousin with a wink and a grin as he shouldered his great bow and quiver, buckling his axe over them. It was a fine and deadly weapon, engraved with the design of trees and woodland creatures. Lúthien only rolled her eyes and sighed again, but she couldn’t keep from laughing. 

The march wardens had left their hair unbound and free of trappings save for the feathers which the birds had given to them. The males were bare chested save for the breastplates of slatted bone arranged like the scales of a fish that they customarily wore and the females wore tight fitting vests of leather. Their leggings were of soft cloth, dark green in color, and around their shoulders they wore close-fitting capes of gray that seemed to change color to suit their surroundings so that they were barely distinguishable from the forest itself. It did not do, in the forest, to wear much or loose fitting clothing for not only did it inhibit the movement of the wearer, who needed to be flexible in skirmishes, but it disadvantaged him by providing something by which an enemy or vicious animal might catch hold of an elf and thereby capture or kill him.

With tints of gray and blue they had painted their skin, marking it with the symbols and emblems of their lineage. They wore necklaces of polished stones, leaves, and polished wood, gifts of the forest. They walked barefoot through the forest for their feet were much accustomed to the earth and it to them. They did not misstep nor did they make any noise at all in their movements, long had they dwelt in the forests of this land. Across their backs were great bows, tall as they were and ornately carved, weapons which made death swift and efficient. Their arrows were long, sharp, and swift. Also, slung across their backs were the great battle axes which they had adopted from the dwarves and grown accustomed to using. But these weapons were light and slender, with finely honed blades, elegant but strong and not made in the heavy manner of dwarven axes.

Celeborn preferred to travel through the treetops so that he might be closer to the stars and many of his wardens did the same, but still others made their way across the forest floor, light on their feet as deer. He could hear them laughing and singing. Despite their wariness, there were so many who were curious to see what these Noldor would be like. He remembered so well when two of Finarfin’s sons had first come to Doriath, the way that the Sindar had crowded into the tree tops in Thingol’s great hall to try to catch even the merest glimpse of them. And now all of Doriath was eagerly awaiting the arrival of these newcomers, anxious, no doubt, to catch yet more glimpses of these strange elves marked by some foreign light, to hear more of far off lands beyond the sea and stories of places and people that seemed so different and odd to them.

But Celeborn felt some restless resentment for these foreign elves. It had been difficult to understand Finarfin’s two sons when they had come to Doriath, for they spoke no Sindarin at all and what precious little Green Elven they knew they spoke with thick Quenya accents. Despite their linguistic shortcomings they had been pleasant enough folk, and yet their ignorance about this world had irked him and he could not for the life of him fathom why anyone would want to leave a blessed place for a cursed one. And then there was the boiling anger in his heart that the Valar had allowed the Noldor to willingly wander to Middle Earth but had not offered the Sindar refuge in Aman.

The Noldor had said that the Valar had sent them to combat Morgoth’s evil and Celeborn had not the gift of foresight nor was he particularly adept at looking into the hearts of others, but he knew a lie just as well as anyone else when he heard it and he was of the same mind as Melian in believing that something ill was afoot. The rumors they were constantly hearing of ill will between the Noldorin princes only served to reinforce that belief. Perhaps Aman had grown too small for them and they had come here of their own will, seeking to conquer Sindarin lands and set themselves up as kings. It certainly seemed that way. 

Even had Melian not told them exactly where the Noldorin camp lay, it would have been absurdly easy for them to find it and Celeborn felt a wave of dismay wash over him as at last they caught glimpses of tents through the trees and, on further approach, observed the campfires that the Noldor had lit and the way that the horses, though hobbled, had been allowed to wander outside the camp, grazing freely. They would make easy prey for wargs. With a signal to his wardens they approached, taking up positions in the treetops around the encampment, and Celeborn saw Lúthien, who crouched beside him on a branch, signal to her dogs below. Obediently they lay down and were silent, heeding their mistress’s command as the wardens crouched around them in the brush.

Celeborn had thought for certain that the Noldor must have been aware of their approach, for he would have been had he been in their position, and yet it seemed that they were not. “It’s not so very many as I expected,” Lúthien whispered, her keen eyes scanning the Noldorin encampment. 

“Finarfin’s house has the smallest following,” Celeborn murmured, “and the two brothers we met have gone into the north, doubtlessly taking part of the host with them. I suppose this is what remains.” It was an oddly curious sight and Celeborn’s mind, so used to battle and strategy, had immediately begun to count guards and horses, to assess the position of the camp.

“This is dangerous,” he breathed. “Lighting fires at night…horses wandering about…don’t they know there’s a war on? Look at the way they’ve arranged their camp,” he gestured with a nod of his head. “It’s almost as if they’re asking to be attacked. There are orcs round this way and wargs too…worse things perhaps.”

Lúthien shrugged. “I suppose they’ve never had to worry about such things before in Aman,” she said. The thought seemed almost incomprehensible to the both of them who had been taught from before they could walk not to wander too far, never to travel outside the girdle alone, always to carry weapons. Celeborn had learned to use a knife before he could write his own name.

“Well you would think after fifty years in the wilderness they might have more sense than this,” Celeborn remarked. For some reason it annoyed him and he wasn’t sure why. “They’re lucky we’ve arrived. They ought to be thankful.” His eyes had caught a glimpse of a golden haired man below talking to some others. Findaráto, perhaps?

“Oh Eru, look at his clothes!” Lúthien exclaimed with a laugh. “Did you ever see such a thing? How very ridiculous!”

Celeborn could not help but crack a grin at that, despite his irritation with the danger these Noldor had put themselves in. The prince, Findaráto, or whoever he was, certainly was dressed in an outlandish manner for traveling, wearing stiffly formal clothes that, even from where they were perched in the treetops, clearly hindered his movement. “He wouldn’t fare very well in battle with that getup,” Celeborn laughed.

“Something about them….” Lúthien leaned forward with interest, carefully observant, “looks wearied, worn,” she murmured. “Oh…” she said sadly as they watched the guards carefully scraping the sides of a pot with a wooden spoon. “Celeborn they haven’t any food…look how hungry they are.” Her voice welled with sympathy as she turned saddened eyes back towards her cousin. 

“No,” he murmured, looking down to where Lúthien pointed, “they haven’t.” And now that she had said it, he could see it too, that even the prince, dressed in ludicrous finery though he was, had the hollowed look of a famine victim, eyes set just a bit too deeply in his face, cheekbones just a bit too prominent, his fine clothes just a bit looser than they ought to be. They were the telltale signs of one who has so recently spent a long while without food and has only just begun to recover.

He hadn’t expected to feel any such sympathy for these people, foreign people who meant to take and settle upon the lands that his people had ruled for thousands of years, foreign people who demeaned them, called them savages and Moriquendi. But looking on them now he could not help but recall the days before they had built Menegroth, before Melian had wrapped their kingdom in her protective enchantments. His belly still recalled the hunger pangs that had kept him awake as a child, the rattling of weapons whenever orcs came upon their encampments, when his mother had told him to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see. But he hadn’t closed his eyes. These people were frightened, hungry, in danger…as they had been so long ago, and suddenly the dark shadow that lay over them did not seem to matter as much. These people were not their enemy; Bauglir was, and it was Bauglir and none other who had done the both of them wrong.

“Come along,” he said softly, reaching out to take Lúthien’s hand. “Let us not leave them here like this for the night but go down immediately and welcome them within the girdle.” Lúthien nodded, understanding perfectly well what he meant, and together they alighted from the tree, signaling to the wardens to follow them. 

Celeborn could practically feel Lúthien’s excitement as they entered the camp and turned to grin at his cousin but her smile evaporated, turning to a look of shock, her eyes going wide and then, in the next instant she was pushing him to the ground shouting, “get down!” He fell, Lúthien atop him, and saw the blur of a blade whizzing over his head, the only sound he could hear the thudding of his heart in his chest, as if everything had suddenly stopped, and then the world rushed back in, the sound of screaming, of swords being drawn, and he pushed himself to his feet, pulling Lúthien with him.

“Tell our soldiers to disarm them!” He said, taking his cousin by the shoulders and she nodded vigorously, shock in her eyes. “Don’t allow anyone to be hurt Lu.”

“Find the Prince,” Lúthien exclaimed and Celeborn nodded. Then he was off, racing through the camp, dodging between tents, searching for the prince he had seen earlier, someone who could quell this impending violence, someone with authority, but everywhere the Noldor were drawing their swords and he dodged and ducked to avoid their blows, for he did not wish to do violence to them and indeed, the thought of injuring another elf was so abhorrent to him as to be unthinkable, which was why he was so confused about what was happening, about why they had reacted in this way.

“Findaráto!” He cried, the one word he knew in their tongue, the name of this prince, but he did not materialize at the sound of his name, and Celeborn looked around at the boiling chaos, praying that his wardens would hold, that they would not strike out of fright. He turned left, dashing between two tents, and then suddenly his mad rush was arrested by the feel of a warm, solid body colliding with his. 

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened, a moment for his vision to adjust, for just as he had run into this person his eyes had been struck by the oddest sort of light, not the flickering flame of a candle, nor even the twinkling light of the stars, but a rich sort of radiance that seemed to wrap itself around him and around everything in a blinding glow that had startled his eyes into blindness. 

It was as if he was suddenly seeing that first sunrise again, a great flash of bright light across the horizon, like a sparking coal in a copper brazier, the light pulsing again – once, twice, three times and then over the edge of the world had come the rise of a great, glowing, yellow ball that seemed almost as though it were made of fire itself. His eyes had been drawn wide in horrified awe at the burning monstrosity rising in the east, certain that he was about to die, that this was some punishment sent by the Valar to destroy them, to immolate them like dry autumn leaves in a fire. 

His heart had stood still for the span of a moment in his chest, the only sound in his ears his own breathing as he watched the strange transformation of the earth and it stood still again now as he watched the way that color spread to all things at the mere touch of this light, like ink staining a parchment, the sky bleeding from the black of night to soft pinks, and blues, and yellows, hues of rich and cheery green coating the leaves of trees, creeks and streams tumbling into blues deep as a sapphire’s shine. His heart was thundering like a river in his chest and when the light cleared at last, or perhaps it did not clear, perhaps his eyes had merely adjusted to it, he suddenly understood what Thingol must have felt when he first beheld Melian in Nan Elmoth. 

Except this woman was not clothed in the shadows of the evening, but in the brightness of day. Her skin was pale, glowing as if it had been brushed with the glimmering dust of dawn, her eyes blue as a lake but lit from within by some ethereal light the likes of which he had never seen before, and her hair…her hair seemed as if it had been woven from the light of the day traveler itself, all gleaming golden hues, and yet it was threaded with a remembrance of the silver light of the stars as well.

She stared at him as he stared at her, each trying to puzzle out what the other was. He would have expected her to shriek and call for help, as the rest of her people had done, but she did neither, standing her ground, observing him with some fierce curiosity, her eyes lit with the fire of determination, of resilience. This woman had wandered in the wilderness, her body bore the unmistakable traces of hardship…and yet she was not bowed nor broken but stood straight and tall as a reed at the river’s edge, strong as the oak that hold steady before an oncoming thunderstorm; she was not afraid. 

“What are you?” He asked when at last he could breathe again, for maybe she was a Maia such as Melian. If she had said that she was a Vala even that he would have believed, for he had never seen anyone like her in all his life. But she looked at him quizzically, tilting her head, her elegant features drawn together in a look of mild consternation, and then her expression relaxed as she drank in the sight of him and he watched the light move across her eyes. 

“Telperion…” she whispered, a word he did not know, looking as if she were in some faraway place of remembrance, as if she had wandered into a dream and he rather felt as though he had as well, but the battle cries and the rattling of steel on steel brought him violently back to the present. 

“Come with me!” He cried, this time in the language of the green elves, praying she would understand that at least, grasping for her hand and pulling her along with him through the camp, their feet splashing through the mud. She was a quicker runner than he had anticipated, keeping abreast of him eagerly, and as they reached the center of the camp she threw her hands up, crying something in a foreign tongue, her voice loud, deep, commanding, her eyes flashing with fire. He gazed at her in amazement. He had been raised by Melian, alongside Lúthien, but never in his life had he seen a woman like this…

Whatever it was she had shouted, it stopped the fighting almost instantly and the Noldorin soldiers obediently dropped their weapons. With another word from her they were clearly offering their apologies to the Sindarin wardens with embarrassed bows and the woman sighed in relief, the power that had throbbed through her body but a moment earlier slowly dissipating. 

“My apologies,” the woman said in stilted Green Elven, turning back to him. “It’s the way you’re dressed. You did not look like elves to them. They were confused.”

Her words came as a shock. Whatever Celeborn had thought she would say it certainly wasn’t that. Did she mean to say they had mistaken his people for orcs? “What do you mean we do not look like elves?” He retorted, the heat of the moment causing his anger to boil over. It seemed a poor excuse to him for such an inexcusable action as drawing a weapon on another elf. Here they had meant to welcome the Noldor into their kingdom and instead they had been met with violence.

But Lúthien had come jogging up and, with her, the golden-haired prince they had spotted earlier. “My most sincere apologies!” The foreign man cried, a look of grave concern on his face. “Our people were startled. They thought for a moment that they were being attacked by orcs.”

Lúthien gave Celeborn a pointed look and he bit back the angry retort that had threatened to burst from his mouth. “I see,” he said instead. 

“Findaráto,” the prince said, holding out his hand, “or…Finrod in your tongue I suppose.” He spoke in the Green Elven tongue, but his accent was far less pronounced than the woman’s, which made him easier to understand. “You must be Celeborn.”

“I see you’ve heard of me,” Celeborn said stiffly, the heat of battle and of the insult still pulsing through his veins as he struggled to calm his rattled nerves.

“No one speaks to Thingol who doesn’t speak to his prince first…or so I’ve heard,” Findaráto said.

“I see you’ve done your research,” Celeborn said, softening a bit at last, and Findaráto nodded. He seemed an earnest enough fellow, for all of his strange clothes and his people’s strange ways.

“And I…er…” the golden-haired prince laughed, nervously trying to smooth over the botched first meeting. “I see you’ve met my sister, Artanis, and I’ve already met Lúthien here.” He nodded to the Sindarin princess but Celeborn turned to look at the Noldorin one, nodding to her stiffly. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him coldly.

He ought to be thanking the stars that she had commanded the soldiers to step down and instead all he had had for her were harsh words. A rude man, one without proper manners, and a temper that seemed to evidence all the rumors she had already heard about Thingol and about Sindarin men. She could hardly believe now that when first she had laid eyes on him she had stood in awe of how very handsome he was. 

“Perhaps our first meeting has not been so fortuitous,” the raven haired Sindarin princess said, stepping forward with a kind smile, “but may all of our other meetings be very happy. Won’t you return with us to Menegroth? You must be very weary but we have prepared a great feast in your honor and perhaps you would like to relax in the baths and to sleep upon beds of feather down. For that is why we were sent after all, to offer you refuge in our kingdom, if you will take it.”

“The way was shut…” Findaráto began to say but Lúthien quickly placated his concerns.

“You must understand,” she said, “that Melian my mother has perceived some dark shadow hangs over the Noldor and so we cannot allow any to pass freely into our kingdom without our leave, even though we consider them kin as you are. But the way is open now and if you come with us you shall be able to pass through the girdle.”

Findaráto nodded, speaking to Lúthien as the Noldor packed up their camp, but Artanis quickly lost track of the conversation, having difficulty following the Green Elven tongue. Instead she turned to glance at the man who stood still by her side, listening to the conversation with rapt attention. So this was Celeborn, crown prince of Doriath, chief councilor of Elu Thingol. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought of him, but he was oddly intriguing.

He had noticed her looking at him and turned to meet her eyes, something in his expression softening, as if he was sorry for his earlier anger, though there was still some latent ferocity in his eyes, but perhaps that was always there, a part of him. He looked back towards Findaráto and Lúthien, then back towards her again, seeming undecided, and at last he took a step closer and Artanis swallowed hard. He really was handsome, very, very handsome, with eyes the dark green color of Telperion’s leaves even as his hair was the color of Telperion’s light, like moonlight reflected in a stream, the gleaming silver of stars. And he was tall as well, as tall as she, the confident ease with which he moved and the powerful lines of his body bespeaking his profession as a warrior.

The thought suddenly arose to her mind that she hoped he found her beautiful and she paused for a moment in thought, surprised that such an idea had occurred to her, for he was after all a dark elf and of course…of course it would be beneath her to even consider…

“You’re hungry,” he said in the language of the Green Elves, his voice deep but with some hint of softness that seemed so strange considering the flare of wild anger he had exhibited only moments earlier, like the passing of the seasons from the harshness of winter to the new life of spring. He reached out to touch the raised ridge of her collarbone, and Artanis felt her face flush red in irritation. Was that all he had to say about her was that she looked hungry, she, the most beautiful of the Noldor? Was that even what had really upset her or was it the warmth of his fingers against her skin?

“That’s rude,” she said, eyes flashing. “I don’t know how things are in Doriath but you shouldn’t touch a lady without permission.” In her flustered state she wasn’t sure that her Green Elven had been completely correct but he withdrew his hand with an upwards quirk of a silver eyebrow, the grin vanishing from his face, some shadow shifting over his eyes. She almost instantly felt sorry for it but said nothing, her pride restraining her as he fumbled with some pouch at his belt, at last pulling out a crumpled packet of some white bread wrapped in green leaves which he thrust into her hands.

“Keep it,” he said, his voice a low rumble before he turned and walked away, following Findaráto and Lúthien, gathering his people as he went with him. Artanis shivered, ashamed at herself and yet she could not forget the touch of his fingers and reached up, placing her hand over the spot where the warmth of him still lingered. She didn’t know why she ought to feel so conflicted by it. It simply wasn’t appropriate for a dark elf to touch her in that sort of way…as if there were some intimacy between them. And yet still the warmth lingered.

And besides, she reasoned, as if to chase his touch away completely, how dare he remark upon her appearance as if he had some right to do so? He was a rude and presumptuous man. And yet her eyes sought out that flash of silver in the crowd and she swallowed hard.

“I had hoped you would be more tactful than to offend the crown prince of Doriath,” she heard Findaráto’s sigh at her side as they began to walk and turned to greet her brother with a glare.

“I would have hoped that you would be more tactful than to answer nature’s call while our people have gotten worked up into a frenzy of panic!” Artanis retorted.

“And how was I supposed to know that the Sindar were on the approach or that they would look so savage as to startle our people?” Findaráto replied.

“Well don’t tell him how savage they look,” she murmured with a jerk of her head towards the Prince. I said as much and he was very upset over it.

“I thought that’s why you came to Middle Earth, Artanis, to see the savages,” Findaráto said with a wink and Artanis sighed. 

“Well maybe I don’t like them as much as I thought I might,” she said, elbowing her brother. 

But she found herself as fascinated by the Sindar as she always had been and she could not keep from glancing upwards every now and again to where the Sindarin prince was making his way through the treetops, leaping from branch to branch, lithely and gracefully walking that road between the heavens and earth with just as much security as if he had been on the ground itself. Indeed, he seemed perhaps even more secure on his tenuous pathway than he did when walking upon the earth. She wrapped her hands more tightly around the bread he had given her, regretting her harshness of earlier, just as he had so clearly regretted his. 

None of the tales her grandfathers had told her of Thingol and his people had prepared her for the reality of actually meeting them. For his silver hair, she might have thought upon meeting him that Celeborn was Thingol and yet she had known from the start that he was not, though she had not known his name. For just as the light of the two trees marked those who had seen them, so did the darkness of this land leave its trace upon those who had been born into that darkness.

Before she would have said that it marred them…but now…now that she had seen them she did not think it was a marring at all. Indeed, there was something beautiful in it, as if his hair held some trace of the stars, his eyes the savage desolation of a gorge in winter, distant and remote beneath the cold sun of an endless horizon. There had been an intensity in his eyes when he had first looked at her, an intensity that had nearly frightened her, that had jolted her from the past that haunted her and catapaulted her into the unknown future. She reached up, biting her lip with a private smile as she touched her fingertips to her collarbone where he had touched her.

She glanced up again and happened to catch his eye. He stopped for a moment, seeming pleased, looking down at her with an amused smile, and she held up the packet of bread, nodding to him before she broke off a bit and pushed it into her mouth. It really was delicious stuff, having a faint nutty flavor but the sweetness of honey. In fact it was so delicious and she was so very hungry that she immediately broke off half of an entire cake and stuffed it into her mouth. 

“Careful, careful!” The Sindarin princess had approached, laughing. “It’s far more filling than it looks. Eat any more and you’ll feel indisposed!”

“Oh,” Artanis said with a twinge of embarrassment, folding the leaves back around it.

“Did Celeborn give it to you?” Lúthien asked. 

“He did,” Artanis nodded and Lúthien raised a dark eyebrow, her gray eyes suddenly sparkling with curiosity.

“Oh really…” she mused. “That’s very interesting indeed.”

“What is it?” Artanis asked, turning the packet over in her hands.

“We call it lembas,” Lúthien told her, “a royal gift and a very special one.”

Artanis could not help but laugh at that. “If it is a royal gift then why has he let it get all crumpled and broken?” She asked, shaking her head.

“Well Celeborn has a rather bad habit of pilfering it from the kitchens when he knows it is being made for some special occasion,” Lúthien said. “He’s very fond of it and he must be very fond of you to have given it to you.”

“I’ve hardly spoken to him,” Artanis said, suddenly uncomfortable as the conversation drifted towards topics she was not at ease discussing, mostly because all of her opinions, which had been so securely fixed this morning, seemed to have all been thrown off kilter. Celeborn made her uncomfortable and she had yet to decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

Lúthien seemed to have understood her discomfort and mercifully steered the conversation toward less murky waters. “You speak the Green Elven tongue quite well,” she said.

“Oh no, not as well as I would hope,” Artanis said with a smile, and yet she was happy to receive the compliment. “But I am very much looking forward to learning Sindarin.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Lúthien said. “It seems easier, I think, than Quenya, though of course all of us should be very glad to learn your language as well, particularly if you plan on staying for a while, which I truly hope you will.” Her eyes were lit with excitement. “I would love nothing more than to learn of Aman and of your people. My father and mother have many tales of course but it has been so very long since either of them were there that I think things must have changed a good deal.”

“Yes,” Artanis said, feeling a sinking in her heart, “yes I am sure they have.”

But there was no more time for her to dwell now on Finwë’s death, the theft of the Silmarils, Morgoth’s treachery, or the slaughter at Alqualondë, for they had arrived now at a bridge that spanned the tumbling waters of the Esgalduin, in which the light of imminent dawn was reflected, and before them now, set into the mouth of a great cavern, stood two enormous gates. “Welcome to Menegroth,” Lúthien said, turning to her with happiness in her eyes, “capital of Doriath and the seat of Thingol and Melian.”


	4. The Gifts of a King

  
**The Gifts of a King**  
In Cavern's Shade: 4th Chapter

*****

“The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler  
is to look at the men he has around him.”  
_– Machiavelli_

*****

**Author’s note:** I would like to say thank you to everyone who has been reading so far. I have been writing this story for almost a decade and only recently got around to posting it. I hope that you enjoy and, of course, I would be delighted to hear any comments that you might have.

*****

Menegroth was as a labyrinth and, as the Sindar led them down further and further into the caves, the thought occurred to Artanis that even had she wanted to leave, she would never have been able to find her way out. The passages down from the great gate were fearsome, mere tunnels of stone, some hung with blazing silver lanterns and others with flaming torches set into the walls.

There was some narrow claustrophobic quality to these halls that caused Artanis to wrap her arms about herself all the more tightly, and yet she was completely enthralled, for the walls were carved with ornate images of beasts, some of them familiar to her and others foreign. Whether they were creatures of this land that she had never seen or mythical beasts that lived only in the mind of the artist’s imagination she did not know but their eyes were set with glimmering jewels that flickered in the torchlight and their teeth, she realized as she reached out in awe to touch them, were of bone. 

Her fingertips lingered on the smooth bone, enthralled by the carvings. Here she had thought that the masons, and artists, and sculptors of Aman would be the more skilled yet now she found that the only thing that had been inadequate had been her own understanding. This art was not lesser, rather, it was merely…different, but beautiful nonetheless, only she had never seen this sort of beauty before. It was strange and fey, at once frightening and alluring, and as she walked she trailed her hand along the wall, letting her fingers dip into every crevice as if to memorize these carvings. 

They made no attempt at realism, as Noldorin artists so frequently did, but rather aspired towards the fantastic, not flesh and bone, but stars and ether, all rock and ice and storm and abyss. There was a stark but stunning simplicity to the carvings, some aspect that spoke to the nakedness of the world before the first elves – or of what would be the cindered earth after the last. They almost seemed as if they moved in the flickering torchlight and she could see these creatures now in her mind’s eye, stalking the dark forests of this land, hear their roars, and the thought sent a shiver coursing down her spine.

But when next she looked up she felt a jolt of terror shoot through her, for she was alone in the dark corridors, completely alone, a thousand tunnels appearing before her, and she had no idea which way she ought to go. She clutched the lembas to her chest, as if that would save her. The idea that she could be lost in the tunnels for eternity…or at least until her demise, shuddered in her heart, and for a brief moment her wonder at this enchanted place turned to cold dread. But, before she had even another moment to ponder her doom, he appeared, emerging from the shadows as if he were made of shadow himself, face half lit by the flickering torches, silver hair tumbling to his waist and rattling quietly with ornaments of wood and bone. His expression was unreadable but not unkind, his eyes so dark that she could not now see the green in them. 

And as she stood there facing him she felt as if suddenly everything had become clearer, as if the whole world had shifted into focus in that moment or else that she was seeing everything anew. The Sindar were savage, yes, but they were savage in the way that the bleak rocky face of a mountain was savage, as the flight of a hawk, as a thundering river tumbling into a gorge, as the moving of a thunderhead across the sun, or the fierce, keen, piercing light of the stars so different from the soft glow of the moon.

They were not lesser, not inferior, no, for it is the ferocity of a hawk that makes it beautiful, just as it is the peril of a mountain that gives it its majesty. And what was she save a songbird raised in the golden-safe-glittering of the Valar’s cage? Yet…perhaps even a songbird could soar if only she knew how to open her cage; and she knew not whether it was prescience or merely wishful thinking that whispered in her ear that he held the key.

It wasn’t until then that she understood why her words had offended him, that to equate his darkness, their darkness, with evil had been an affront to everything that he was and to everything he held dear. And for once in her life her pride did not rise in rebellion at the realization that she had been wrong, but instead she found that she was grateful. He made some motion with his hand, as if to tell her to follow him, and, hardly able to believe her own audacity, she stepped forward, heart pounding in her chest as she reached up and pulled a pearl hairpin from the mess of her golden curls. It came away with one glimmering golden hair twined about it.

She reached out, her mind shouting the entire while that she ought not do this and yet her heart pounded a ferocious ‘yes’ in her veins as she took his hand in hers. It was a weary hand, a kind hand, a hand far older than its years, calloused and big and warm, well used to toil and hardship. It might have been a map of the world, each line some crevice or canyon or gorge yet unexplored, a constellation charted in flesh. And with fingers and a heart far surer than the wavering of her mind’s labyrinthine logic, she pressed her hairpin into his palm, the pearl shining softly there like moonglow, and gently she pressed his fingers closed over it.

It seemed right, somehow, that this pearl which Olwë had plucked from the shores of Alqualondë should be given to Elwë’s nephew. She had meant to apologize, to tell him she was sorry for what she had said earlier, to somehow explain that she was beginning to understand, but instead the words that came out were, “thank you.” She had said it in Quenya and then fumbled for the Green Elven equivalent but could not find it, yet he seemed to have understood, grinning as he twiddled the trinket between his fingers for a moment. It looked so small in his hands. Then he reached up, pulling the long silver braid over his shoulder, and pushed the pin into the hair just above where the leather bound a cluster of eagle feathers. 

She could still see the gold of her hair glimmering there amongst the silver. He did not know the significance of what she had done, did not know that the princes of Aman had squabbled over her hair like children, that she had refused even Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor. She was certain that even her parents would have been shocked to hear that she had granted a strand of her hair to anyone…and here she had given it to the prince of the Sindar, a man she had just met. And, if she had been asked why she had given such a coveted thing to him she knew that she would have replied that it was precisely because he did not covet it. Fëanor had wanted to lock the beauty of things away in crystalline prisons but this man…she knew him not at all and yet she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would smash a Silmaril to smithereens if only to set free the light within it.

He looked at the hairpin for a moment, amused, and then back up at her once more, motioning for her to follow him again and so she did, making her way after him through the darkness, her fingers on the wall once more, dipping into the crevices of the carvings, a smile on her face now. The world suddenly seemed so new, as if the starving and wandering were behind them now and the whole future laid out before her like a brilliant horizon. 

Everything that had seemed so impossible only yesterday now seemed to be at her very fingertips. And then…then the most marvelous thing happened. The ways of shadow spread out suddenly into great halls like vaults of topless trees where trunks of carven stone, so lifelike that she would never have believed they were not trees themselves had her brothers not already told her, towered up to a roof that seemed impossibly high and across which now moved the breaking of dawn in soft colors of pale blue, and pink, and gold.

She reached out to touch the stone trees, unable to resist, and found the bark beneath her hand to be almost warm, as if these trees lived and breathed just as surely as she did. A soft breeze rustled through the city and caused a tinkling like bells in the thick canopy of leaves above, leaves that were made of emerald, each one of them veined with gold, reflecting the morning light in prisms of green as dark as the forest and as bright as spring grass. She felt as if she had been struck dumb with awe and her face must have showed it because the Sindarin prince turned around, looking at her for a moment before he flashed her a broad grin.

“My home,” he said to her in the Green Elven tongue, pressing a hand over his chest proudly.

The roads of the city spread out before them like veins of life, dirt pathways of a forest that at times turned to cobblestones of all different colors, and they made their way across soft grass, and moss, and heather. The people of Doriath stopped to stare but Artanis paid them little mind, for she was so entranced by this enchanted forest that she had no attention to give to anything else. Here and there the trees were hung with elegant silver and gold lanterns, their little flames burning brightly, and flowers of all colors, some like tiny silver stars and others big, and lush, and vibrant grew wherever they liked, pushing their way up through rocks, nestling between the thick roots of the trees. Every now and again a flock of nightingales would burst forth from the treetops, causing the leaves to rustle like a thousand little bells as the birds winged their way across the enchanted sky and into morning. 

And every now and again they came to little brooks and streams over which elegant bridges had been built. The waters of those streams were crystal clear, their banks lushly populated with moss of soft grays, and greens, and lavender, and in the sparkling waters swam fish of bright iridescent oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and golds, which were very beautiful, with long flowing fins and quite astonishingly large. Artanis marveled that such a wonder as this magnificent city could lie below the ground of a forest so brutal and dark. 

Among the trees wandered the creatures of the wood, tawny fawns still with their white spots and gray squirrels, unusually gentle badgers and soft white rabbits, and they saw that these too came and went as they pleased, for they were not domesticated but wild, though they wandered here in a King’s halls. They passed among the elves as if they too were citizens of this great city, and perhaps they were, for many of the Sindar seemed to greet them as if they were old friends. 

The Sindar themselves were dressed in clothes that were simple but fine and in the soft browns, greens and grays of the forest, or else in the lavenders and blues of the twilight. They bowed gently as they passed and the Prince returned their bows, and Artanis had only a moment to wonder why there were so many people gathered here before she saw at the far end of this hall, if one could call it a hall for it seemed more like a glade, a small moss-covered hill on which were two thrones fashioned from living trees before which stood the King and Queen of Doriath, so beautiful that whatever image she had conjured in her imagination of them was wholly inadequate. 

Thingol’s eyes were of the same clear, bright blue as his brother Olwë’s while Melian’s were gray as evening and both of their gazes were keen as lances in the starlight. In them flickered the light of the two trees and beyond that some wisdom that Artanis could not begin to fathom. 

Elu’s hair was of silver as long and bright as his nephew’s and he wore robes of deep blue finely brocaded silk and a silver necklace whose many strands twined like vines about his neck. His mantle was gray as the twilight and beautiful, seeming to take on the colors of the forest around him. Over his broad shoulders was draped the snow-white pelt of a wolf and upon his brow was a circle of green leaves, beautiful but simple in its elegance. He seemed taller even than she had heard, taller certainly than Finwë had been, and his face was exceedingly handsome, his features well formed and a certain intensity in his eyes, the same sort of fierceness that she had seen in the prince. Looking upon him now, it was not hard to imagine how even a goddess had fallen in love with him at first sight.

And a goddess she was indeed. The potency of Melian’s magic seemed nearly tangible here in Menegroth and she herself seemed not so much an elf, but as if she were instead some force of nature clothed in the likeness of an elf. Her hair was dark as night, so dark that when the light shone upon it, it seemed nearly blue as the deepest ocean. Her skin was dusky yet as luminescent as the harvest moon and she wore a gown of deep indigo silk, light and airy, that clung to her form and trailed upon the ground like the waves of the ocean. Its sleeves were long and fitted to her arms but her shoulders were bare and beautiful. Her face was the fairest of all there assembled, with bold stunning features, large mystical all-knowing eyes that still bore within them images of the creation of the world over which arched dark brows like the wings of a raven. Her beauty was elegant but it was not fragile; it was almost frightening.

It was not until she saw the Prince come to stand beside the King that Artanis realized she had stopped, dumbfounded in awe, but then she felt a gentle hand upon her elbow and turned to look at Finrod. “Thank Eru,” he whispered with worry, though his eyes were lit with the awe of this place, “we thought you had gotten lost. The Prince went back to look for you.”

“This place is magnificent,” Artanis breathed, clasping her brother’s hands. “Even all of the stories that Angaráto and Aikanáro told did not begin to do it justice!” Of course she had seen the magnificent pleasure gardens of Taniquetil, dwelled in the opulent wealth of the palaces of Tirion, and passed many a pleasant hour upon the elegant verandas of Alqualondë, but Menegroth was so different, so…exotic.

And yet, despite their excitement, they fell quiet then, for Lúthien had stepped forward from her mother’s side, descending from the dais, and began to sing. Her voice was entrancing, though Artanis could not understand a word of what she said, for she wove the threads of her song together skillfully until the words and melody shimmered with a wealth of emotion and yet the song seemed as fragile as the finest gossamer silk, a thing of shining yet fragile beauty.

Celeborn listened intently to his cousin’s song, to her tale of the journey of the Noldor over the Helcaraxë, a tale of woe, and sorrow, and loss. He had already heard the tale himself, or most of it at least, gleaned from snippets of information gathered from Thingol’s vast network of spies and from those of their people who had encountered the sons of Fëanor in the wilderness. Some of it must be true, he reasoned, his eyes drifting once more to the strange Noldorin girl, for he was intimately familiar with the effects of hardship and famine, having suffered them himself as a young man in the days before Menegroth had been built and encircled with Melian’s protective girdle, and he recognized the look of sunken cheeks, of collarbones that were too prominent, of hair made brittle by hunger. 

They had tried to mask it with finery, with jewels and a surplus of makeup, and yet why had they brought such luxuries with them on a journey over the Helcaraxë? And if they had intended to traverse the grinding ice then was it merely an oversight that they had not brought enough food or warm clothing with them? No. Lúthien’s song rose in harmony with his thoughts, telling of the darkening of Valinor and the slaying of the two trees but then her voice fell into the denoument of the song and lapsed at last into silence, leaving Celeborn unsatisfied and without answers.

Something had gone wrong; that much was obvious. And, it must certainly have been something very dire or else they would not have made such an effort to conceal it. But he could not fathom how they thought they could possibly hide such a thing from Thingol. He shifted in his seat, propping his elbows up on his knees and letting his hands fall between them where he laced his fingers together. 

Thingol had stood now, descending from the dais with Melian on his arm, speaking words of welcome to these foreign visitors, but Celeborn hardly heard whatever it was that his uncle said, for he could not keep his eyes from this Noldorin woman, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it was merely that she was so different from anyone he had ever seen before, but no, there was something else, some intangible quality that drew his fascination. She burned brightly, not the gold of her hair, but something else deep within. He had seen the fierceness in her eyes at the clearing in the woods and he could not forget it. 

He had tried to dismiss her many times already, holding her scorn for his people in contempt, yet she had surprised him even then and with such simple gestures, the breaking of a piece of bread, the transfer of a hairpin from her braid to his, she had swept away the rigid and unyielding opinions that he had already shackled about her neck. And she had pride, yes that was obvious enough, pride enough so as to provoke his anger, but kindness dwelled in her heart as well, a strange juxtaposition and one he never would have expected.

He had tried as well to convince himself that she was not beautiful, that the boniness of hunger, the dullness of her brittle hair, made her ugly, and yet he could see the nascent beauty hidden in her skin, her eyes, in hair that longed to shine once more. And maybe that’s what it was after all; perhaps that is where the fascination came from. This was a woman who had been confined her whole life, either by social convention or by the hindrance of laws, but there was something, something inside of her fighting to escape, to break free, something powerful. He felt his breath catch in that moment and her eyes snapped up to his, growing wide, her lips parting just the littlest bit, almost as if she had heard his thoughts, but that, of course, was impossible.

Still, he sat pondering the thought, a bit shaken himself, as she turned her eyes awat from his and back to Melian, carefully heeding the queen’s words. Why did you leave? The thought flickered to the forefront of his mind and he longed to ask it, imagined himself descending from the dais, taking her hand, and asking her that question. And he knew that when at last he heard the answer then it would all become clear to him, what it was in her heart that drove her and…thusly…the name of this strange feeling burgeoning in his own heart. He was the prince of Doriath. He came and went as he pleased, did as he pleased, was equally at home on the battlefield and in the King’s council. He knew this kingdom, this land, as closely as though it were the back of his own hand. And yet…it was as if this Noldorin woman had set his entire world off kilter. Yesterday he had been so certain of his own destiny, of the destiny of his kingdom…but now doubt had crept in like fog in the morning, harbinger of a storm to come.

“Celeborn…” It was the third time that Thingol had had to repeat the prince’s name and at last he turned to raise a speculative silver eyebrow at his nephew who, belatedly realizing his inattention, scurried down from the dais to take his place at the King’s side, nervously clasping his hands behind his back, and Artanis had to bite her lip to keep from grinning, which would have been inappropriate given the situation, but it still took nearly all of her willpower to keep from glancing up at the Prince as Melian and Thingol continued with their welcome to Findaráto, or Finrod, as Melian had declared he was now to be known. 

At last her curiosity got the better of her while Thingol spoke of how the Prince’s counsel was to be Doriath’s gift of welcome to her brother, and she glanced up, her eyes lingering for a brief moment on the hollow of the Prince’s throat, not daring to raise them any further. For she knew that if she met his eyes she would be swept away once more by this unknown world into which she had stumbled. How had everything changed in the span of that moment when her eyes had first met his? Everything had been so secure: her opinions of the Sindar, her sense of right and wrong, her certitude of what she would accomplish here in Middle Earth. 

Yet now she felt disoriented, as though she were as a ship in a storm forced to recalibrate all her carefully laid points, as if whatever compass she had been using to chart her course had been irreparably shattered. It was all because of this man…this man, because he stood in defiance of what she had presumed, every fiber of his existence an affront to her carefully laid plans. And, most startling of all was her own reaction, the fact that she found herself not only willing, but unstoppably eager to throw everything else aside…all for whatever nascent fascination she had with this…this Moriquendi.

She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, more potent perhaps than even his touch had been, and her heart leapt into her throat as her name was called and the King and Queen came to stand before her. But she could hardly hear the words the Queen was speaking to her now, for she found her mind caught up in the newness of it all, in the mystery of this strange prince, in the marvel of these caves, in the people so different from her own.

“And your gift, Artanis, shall be to take your place as one of my handmaidens, to learn by my side the lore and wisdom of Middle Earth,” the Queen said, as Artanis struggled to keep her focus on Melian’s gray eyes rather than the green ones of the Prince who stood by her side. She was nearly horrified with herself for her own impropriety, afraid that she might seem rude, that she was not paying as close attention to Melian’s words as she ought. She swallowed hard, watching as the Queen smiled the sort of smile that enchanted all who saw it, the edges of her eyes crinkling while mirth danced in their depths. 

She waited eagerly in anticipation of learning what name the Queen would bestow upon her, but Melian only turned, raising her elegant hands into the air and clapping them together, a movement that caused a great surge of movement as the people transformed Thingol’s great hall into a banquet hall. Everywhere about them servants had tossed down lush elegantly-woven carpets upon which they set low mahogany tables and a wealth of silk cushions.

“Please,” Melian said with a laugh and a smile and Finrod and Artanis sank down to sit upon the cushions. It was strange, Artanis thought, that they would sit upon the floor to eat, and stranger still that all who had gathered in the hall, both nobility and servants alike, sat down to table together, but there was a certain opulence to all of it that rivaled the grandness of Valinor. The table before her was carved in the most elegant designs depicting all manner of forest creatures and inlaid with wood of many different colors while the cushions upon which they sat were woven of the finest silk in rich colors and even the carpets depicted various scenes that she could only assume told the history of this kingdom.

“You are surprised at the wealth of Doriath?” She heard the deep melodious voice of Melian ask and looked up to see that the King and Queen had taken their seats opposite her and Finrod and, though she tried not to be obvious about it, she could not help but glance to the King’s right, where the prince had settled into a pile of cushions, reclining there with the ease and confidence of one who was perfectly at home. 

It had been a mistake, perhaps, to look at him, for she felt her heart begin to beat just a bit faster, her breath catch in her throat, and she struggled to cover her unease with words. “I…yes well…I mean no…I,” she stammered in reply to the Queen’s question. “What I mean is…” but she was so overly concerned now with causing offense, remembering what Finrod had said earlier about her to their brothers, that the words froze in her mouth.

“What my sister means to say is…” Finrod began, sitting up eagerly, placing his hand on his sister’s, and Artanis felt a strange mixture of gratefulness and irritation flood her heart, grateful that he had rescued her from what might have been an awkward conversation and irritation that he had silenced her. But Finrod spoke no further before he himself was interrupted.

“Your sister seems perfectly capable of speaking for herself,” Celeborn said, his voice low. He did not even bothered to raise his eyes as he said it, attention focused instead on the pearl hairpin he was twiddling between his fingers, having unbound his long silver braid. And Artanis swallowed hard as she saw Finrod’s eyes dart towards that hairpin, recognizing it for what it was. The Prince looked up at last, green eyes going to Finrod’s, and though his gaze was firm, it was not angry. “It is not our custom here to keep others from speaking, even if their words might offend,” he shrugged.

Artanis could feel Finrod’s hand trembling in her grasp beneath the table and knew that her normally level-headed brother was possibly on the verge of coming to blows with the Sindarin prince mostly, she presumed, for the hairpin that Celeborn was still twiddling between his fingers and not for the words that he had spoken. 

Thingol only laughed heartily, clearly unconcerned though he seemed to have taken note of Finrod’s stormy expression, and said, “I can see that Celeborn’s council will be of great use to you in your dealings with our people.”

“In Valinor it would be a grave offense for a Prince to speak so without the leave of his King,” Finrod said, his voice restrained, clearly trying to keep from anger so as not to offend his potential benefactor. He had, after all, gone to great lengths to make a good impression.

“It is not so here,” Thingol said with a great booming laugh, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth and good will. “Celeborn speaks as he likes, though I believe you shall find he is quite renowned for opening his mouth when he ought not. Though he is free to speak as he pleases he knows, as do the rest of my people, that their words will have consequences and that to speak is to accept those consequences. I think you will find that my people have a habit of being straightforward,” Thingol shrugged as if this was no great matter at all, Finrod merely nodded, pride effectively quashed, and Artanis thought she saw the corner of Celeborn’s mouth quirk up in self-satisfied grin for the briefest of moments as attention turned back to her.

She almost laughed at that, pleased to discern what she suspected might be a rather boisterous sense of humor in the prince, but instead she summoned her courage once more and said, “I meant to say that I am not surprised by Doriath’s wealth but instead by how different this place is. Everything here is astonishing, almost as if I have wandered into a story.”

“I am glad to hear it is to your liking,” Melian said warmly, but before their conversation could continue any further, a myriad of servants appeared bearing silver trays laden with all manner of foods. There were salted trout, roasted wild boar, and venison, trenchers of vegetables the like of which Artanis had never seen that had been seasoned with foreign herbs, steaming bowls of aromatic rice and freshly baked bread. It had been decades since Artanis had been offered so much food and she ate ravenously with little care as to whether or not it was proper to do so, while the Doriathrin nobility chattered on around her in their strange language, only looking up when she could eat no more.

“Your Majesty,” she said at last, quietly, and Melian once more looked up at her curiously, setting down her glass of wine. Suddenly Artanis felt the reticence to speak coming over her again but she pushed forward. If it was as the prince had said, if the Doriathrim spoke their minds, then she should as well if she wanted to fit in here in Menegroth. “I…it is only…only that I wanted to ask why you did not give me a name as well. You gave one to my brother but…”

Melian looked at her mysteriously for a moment before a small smile flitted across her lips. “The name has already been given,” she said as if that solved the matter but Artanis stared at her quizzically. 

“Perhaps…I have mistaken your meaning…” she stammered. After all, her Green Elven was not very fluent and her Sindarin was nearly non-existent. Or then, she thought, feeling a lurch in her stomach. Perhaps Melian had given her a name after all and she had been so lost in staring at the prince that she hadn’t even heard it. She could feel the flush of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks already.

Melian smiled again with a soft laugh, her gray eyes twinkling with the light of the stars as she plucked a date from a silver bowl. “You don’t understand,” she said, “but you will. You have already been named and it is not for me to supersede that name.”

Their conversation was cut short by the Prince choking on his wine and, startled, Artanis turned to see a dark haired elf who bore a striking resemblance to the prince cheerily pounding him on the back as he coughed.

“Oh Celeborn will be quite alright,” Melian replied, lifting her crystal goblet to her roughed lips once more, “he has just suffered rather a dreadful shock is all.” Artanis tried her best not to look as puzzled as she was; the Queen had a rather odd way of speaking, as if she was telling a story but had left out some key bits.

The evening turned into a haze of delight, of food and wine and music, of dancers costumed in delicate silks and thousands of bangles, of the heady smoke of incense and the cloudlike softness of silken cushions and before Artanis quite knew what had happened, she opened her eyes to Finrod’s laughing face as he shook her awake. “Having a pleasant dream were you?” Her brother asked her as he helped her up.

“Everything here seems like a dream,” Artanis replied with the lazy soft smile of one who has just awoken from a very good nap as her brother helped her to her feet. She had nearly forgotten the feel of comfort, what it was to sleep upon lush soft carpets and down pillows. The feast was disbanding and she wondered how long it had gone on, how many hours she had been asleep, for the enchanted ceiling above was tinged now in crepuscular hues of violet and indigo, twinkling stars beginning to peek out from the last wisps of afternoon clouds.

“Then you shall certainly be astounded when I show you the quarters that the King and Queen have arranged for us,” Finrod told her. “They said there are feather beds, Artanis, pillows, blankets, and they’ve arranged for a tailor to visit you tomorrow. The Queen thought you might like some gowns in the Sindarin style.” It was far more likely, Artanis mused, that the Queen had conjectured that she didn’t have any other clothes at all and had offered the polite excuse, but she hardly cared. The thought of food, and bed, and proper clothes was enough to satisfy her. At last, 50 years of wandering, starvation, and hardship seemed to have come to an end, and what a magnificent end it was, here in Doriath’s capital city.

Still struggling to push the fog of sleep from her mind she looked around, hoping to catch one more glimpse of the prince before they quit the great hall, but the royal family seemed to have all adjourned and she felt a bitter twinge of disappointment tugging at her heart. “I hope I haven’t been remiss in failing to thank them,” she voiced her concerns as a page showed her and Finrod to their rooms.

“Oh no, certainly not,” Finrod replied reassuringly. “They all left in very high spirits and Melian and Lúthien seem quite fond of you already.” Yet Artanis sensed some tension in her brother’s voice and wondered what he was trying to conceal. It didn’t take long for her to find out. Once they had arrived at their rooms and Finrod had dismissed the servants she had not even an instant to explore their new home before Finrod asked, “Where did he get that hairpin?” 

His whole body was tensed in anger, his eyes flashing with wrath, the lines of his face etched with deep concern. She should have known he would ask and now that it had come to this she wondered why she had not already spun some tale to to tell him. But she hadn’t even thought so far as to wonder whether or not he would be upset over it, indeed, it hadn’t been until she had seen her brother staring at the hairpin as Celeborn toyed with it that she had even thought of his reaction, and so she found herself quite unprepared to speak on the matter.

“Artanis,” Finrod took her shoulders gently in his hands and, as she looked into his eyes she almost thought she saw tears burgeoning there. “I’m so sorry. It was when he went back to find you wasn’t it? I should have watched you more carefully! If I had then you would never have been lost. Eru, you must have been frightened! And then I let him go back…alone…after you. What did he do Artanis? Tell me! If he took that from you by force…if he touched you without your consent…I…I shall go this very instant and demand he return it. I…I’ll demand he apologize to you this moment! Forget my dreams of a kingdom, I don’t care if it means that Thingol refuses to grant me the deed and the fiefdom, I’ll tear him apart if he touched you I swear I’ll…” Finrod’s voice was trembling and, seeing how upset he was, Artanis managed at last to gather her words.

“Finrod!” She took his hands in her own, squeezing them reassuringly. “You need do no such thing! He did not take it from me, nor did he touch me…at least not without my consent.”

Finrod merely stared at her blankly and it only just now began to register in her mind why this had been so shocking for him. She had never given anyone anything, least of all to a man, and certainly not an item she prized so highly. In her culture where the hair of another was held almost sacred, the gift of a hairpin was a startling declaration of intimacy; the fact that a strand of her hair had clung to that hairpin as she passed it to him was a near unthinkable breach of familiarity. She had never allowed anyone a strand of her hair, not even Fëanor, the greatest of her people, though he had begged three times. 

She could not rightly say what had come over her in that darkened corridor when she had gently reached out and taken the Sindarin prince’s hand in her own smaller one, when she had opened his fingers and pressed her hairpin into his palm. In fact, she hadn’t thought about it at all; it had simply seemed right. She had wanted him to have it, with no expectation of reciprocation or reward, but simply because she had seen something good in him, something admirable, and she had wanted him to know it.

“You…gave it…to him?” Finrod asked as if he could hardly believe it and Artanis couldn’t blame him for his speculation. She wasn’t exactly known for her generosity or selflessness after all, as much as it rankled her to admit it.

“I…yes, yes I did,” she replied, raising her eyes to his and squeezing his hands once more with a smile. “You have nothing to worry over.” And though Finrod’s anger had fled, turning to relief, the look in her eyes told her that he thought he very well might have a good deal to worry over after all. She could well imagine where his mind might be headed and so she hurried to think of some excuse.

“It was because well…” she began, “he gave me that bread of his because he saw I was hungry. Lúthien told me it is a very special gift, a royal gift, and I was so thankful to him for coming to find me when I was lost. I…well…I suppose I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I’m tired you see, and the journey was ever so long.” And all the while she was saying it, Artanis could not help but wonder why she felt she had to lie about such a thing, why she couldn’t simply say that something about the Prince set her blood afire.

“Of course,” Finrod said with a smile, reaching out to playfully pinch her cheek. “Now off to bed with you!” He pushed her gently in the direction of her rooms. “Sleep all you want Artanis, and then eat all you want when you awake! We’re safe now!” She turned back once more, hand upon her door, to roll her eyes at Finrod but her brother caught her eyes. “And ah…” he paused, seeming to struggle with how to put whatever it was he wanted to say. “Do be careful Artanis. Men aren’t quite like women. Giving your hairpins away and such…well…perhaps the Prince has gotten the wrong idea.”

“Of course I shall,” she replied, blowing her brother a kiss goodnight before she entered her rooms and shut the door behind her. She nearly collapsed against it, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands trembling. What use had she for the majesty of these rooms when she could close her eyes and see him there in her mind’s eye with that silver hair like starlight, those green eyes full of unseen things, that grin that hinted at everything that might lie beneath the surface? They had come to a palace of wonders but he was the most beautiful thing in it. 

No, she thought, as she collapsed upon her bed at last, no she didn’t think the Prince had gotten the wrong idea at all. She thought he had, just perhaps, gotten exactly the right idea.

*****

Celeborn would have thought that what with the journey, then the unexpected skirmish, and at last the banquet with its surplus of heady wine, the comfort of his feather bed would have caused him to fall to sleep almost instantaneously. He’d never had a hard time sleeping, in fact, Thingol often poked fun at him for his ability to fall asleep anywhere he liked… including council meetings. However, on this day sleep was an absolute impossibility. He turned this way and that, unable to find a comfortable position, then he was too cold and rose to find a blanket but only moments later he was too hot and pulled off his nightshirt, pushing the blankets aside. He knew exactly what was keeping him up.

It was the woman of course. There were a thousand things about her that were fascinating and yet the thing that had most bewitched him had not been her adamantine courage, nor her fearsome pride, not even the glittering gold of her hair. In fact, the thing that kept him awake was the look he had seen upon her face as he observed her from the shadows in the few seconds before she realized she had been left behind. She had been captivated, completely enraptured by the carvings on the walls, tracing them with her fingertips, a look of awe upon her face as if she was imagining the depths of the forests, the wild beasts that must roam there, the peaks of the mountains far off to the east – a thousand places she had never seen.

It had reminded him of the first time he had seen the sun, the blazing golden globe that had risen across the horizon, shimmering like a hot coal in a copper brazier, a pulsing of light that had slowly become steady as he watched the world roll back in the haze of dawn, brilliant colors seeping into the world like ink staining a parchment. At first he had been filled with terror, thinking the Valar had sent this to destroy them, but then joy had taken terror’s place as he saw the world in a new unfurling of life. 

He had watched the transformation of her mind as it ventured into hope, into imagination, into whatever dreams she held in her heart, and he had stood patiently waiting for her to complete the voyage into herself. Patience was not something he ordinarily possessed, but in watching her an hour could have seemed but a moment to him. But it was when she had turned towards him that he had seen the most remarkable thing of all. First it was a flash of fear as she realized she was alone, then the fortification of her own resolution, and at last joy. It hadn’t been the joy of relief, he would not have instantaneously come to respect her as much as he had if it would have been relief. No, it had been the joy of some realization, some understanding. It had been the same joy he had felt swell in his heart at the first sunrise and he saw it in her eyes then, as if the sight of him had somehow confirmed whatever she had imagined as her fingertips traced those lines in stone. 

And then her pride of earlier had been utterly vanquished, and she had been the one who had defeated it, casting it off as if it were an old cloak that she cared to wear no more as kindness took its place. He could feel the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips as he recalled the touch of her hand. He supposed he ought to have been more honored by the gift of her hairpin or the thread of gold that had been twined about it, but of more significance to him had been the touch of her hand, her fingers closing over his. He had felt in that moment as if he almost had known her his whole life, as if the warmth in her veins had somehow spoken to the pulse in his blood. She had not the delicate hands of a princess, but hands marked with the creases and callouses of hardship, hands that told a story, a story he wanted to learn.

He scrubbed his own hands over his face, grinning like a fool, but it seemed that his face did not know how to keep from smiling. Here he had thought that the Noldor had come to conquer, and colonize, and rule, to subjugate his people beneath their archaic and foreign laws, to bend the gifts of the earth to their will. At first he had thought the same of her, had seen the way she had risen to command as if it came naturally to her, a prince’s daughter, and then the fierce flaring of stubborn pride that he had dared remark upon some aspect of her appearance, she who was supposed to be the fairest of all, fair beyond reproach, but then…ah then! Those things had all been ornaments, but he had seen her soul laid bare in the moment when they had stood alone together. 

Sleep was impossible. He drummed his fingertips against the bed, thoughts darting to and fro in his mind, revolving in some sort of convoluted mayhem. He lay awake, watching the day lantern – the sun – the Noldor had called it the sun, lazily making its trek across the sky. At last he abandoned all hope of sleep. Pushing himself from bed he pulled on a pair of breeches, descending the stairs and plucking the hairpin from where he had left it. It was all he could think about and he twiddled it idly between his thumb and forefinger as he made his way through the halls of the palace to the baths. The pearl was smooth between his fingers. He did not know what had happened to the strand of hair, lost perhaps, but it mattered not at all, nor did the pearl itself; it was nothing but a vehicle for his memory that enabled him to recall the way she had looked at him.

The bathhouses were empty of course; no respectable Sinda woke during the daylight hours. The hot water was some comfort to his aching body, aching because he had just spent two weeks on the borders with little sleep and then Thingol had sent him immediately to greet the Noldor upon his return; it was all the more reason he ought to have had no trouble falling asleep. Celeborn was not ordinarily prone to fidgeting but at first he reclined against the edge of the pool, then he sank beneath the surface, holding his breath for as long as he could. 

The hairpin sat peacefully atop the soft green moss that grew along the edge of the pool and he leaned back as he surfaced, resting his head against the moss, twiddling the hairpin betwixt his fingers once more. Among his own people, such a gift would be a very serious gesture indeed and he wondered if it was so amongst the Noldor as well…or if she had not realized the significance of what she had done. Yet, something told him that she had, that she had realized she wanted this as suddenly as he had. Finally the water felt too hot and he found himself padding his way through the corridors once more. The brief sojourn had done nothing to assist him in sleep.

Melian was at least partly responsible for this. He hadn’t meant anything by it of course, calling the Noldorin woman Galadriel. He hadn’t even said it aloud. He’d just been toying around with the idea in his mind, mostly because Artanis seemed like such an inadequate name for her. She’d said it meant ‘noble woman’. Well, there were very many noble women but that did not distinguish her. Her name told him nothing about her and a name, he felt, ought to tell you at least something about the person who bore it, most especially if that person was…well…someone like her. 

He’d tried to tell himself that she really wasn’t very pretty, that she was too bony, that her hair lacked luster after years of starvation, that there really was nothing remarkable about her. But, Celeborn had never been the sort of man to look a truth straight in the face and deny it, and so at last he had been forced to admit to himself that, even half starved as she was, she really was a stunning beauty. He could only imagine what she might look like when she was healthy again…and he did imagine it. But it wasn’t just that. He’d hardly seen anyone so curious and he was intrigued, intrigued by the magnificent strength that seemed to emanate from her, intrigued by the strange juxtaposition of pride with empathy, captivated by the light of excitement in her eyes, by her wonder at all things new, by her nascent yet evident interest in his people and their culture.

There was something about her. He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head, looking down at the hairpin he held. He could not now recall what he had expected a Noldorin lady to be like; demure, soft-spoken, a shrinking violet perhaps. Whatever preconceptions he had had been wiped from his memory at first sight of her. Apparently his feet knew him better than his mind did, for without meaning to he had arrived now at the place, at that same place where he had found her, and he stood now staring at the fantastic carvings of beasts and trees that the masons of Doriath had worked so long ago.

He reached out, fitting his fingers into the worn grooves where hers had lingered, tracing the lines as if it were some maze, some puzzle, some esoteric riddle, wondering what answer she had found in this cipher and what answer that he, perhaps, might find as well.

*****

The Eluwain were quite different than Artanis had imagined, though they were indeed as savage as she had anticipated, but it was not a barbaric sort of savagery that is unaccompanied by learning, as she had thought it would be. Instead, it was a sort of rawness that she had not yet experienced and there was something about it that thrilled her in the utmost, spurred a certain yearning within her heart. For even but a few scarce weeks had shown her that there was much here to be discovered and she was no longer so secure in her own culture, for she knew not the way of doing things here and there was much yet to be understood that she did not comprehend.

Thus it was with considerable trepidation that she sat as Melian’s other handmaidens darted about her like minnows, chattering in their language that she could hardly understand, preparing her to perform a dance that she wholeheartedly did not wish to do. She would never forgive Finrod, ever, for having volunteered her for a task that she felt wholly incapable of performing. 

So inspired had her brother been by Luthien’s fantastic dance that evening as the people of Menegroth had lounged about in the expansive living adamantine forest of Thingol’s great hall that he had called out to Thingol saying; “My King! Marvelous and full of beauty are the dances of your kingdom! Indeed, I find my heart struck with wonderment at having beheld such a spectacle, yet that very wonderment is due in greater part, perhaps, to the nearly incomparable beauty of the Princess Luthien, who is as radiant as a moonbeam. Yet I would raise a challenge!”

“For if Luthien is as the night then my sister is as the day and she too, in our native land, is renowned for her dancing though our dance be strange and foreign to you. So let Melian’s ladies take my sister and attire her properly and we shall hold a contest to see whether the sun or the moon shall prevail!”

“My dear prince!” Thingol cried in response with a great laugh. “Such an event could hardly be called a contest for my people number the greater here and each one of them, I am assured, is far more enchanted by the beauties of the night than those of the day.” And having so said he leaned back in his throne with a great measure of self-assurance while Melian imparted in Sindarin what had transpired. 

“I would not be so hasty to dismiss Artanis Finarfiniel if I were you my Lord!” Finrod chuckled. 

“But very well,” Thingol replied with a grin and a nod of his head. “We have not your style of clothing but let Melian’s ladies take your sister and dress her in the dancing costumes of our people, then she and my daughter may dance, each to their own music, and we shall determine by popular accolade which of the two shall be the winner!” And Luthien laughed and clapped at her father’s words, for it all sounded like great fun to her, but Artanis could already feel the nervous sweat beading on her skin like dew and the heat from her flushed face. 

“Finrod…no…I…” she pleaded in a whisper, placing a hand on his arm, but her brother turned and caught her hands in his, excitement illuminating his eyes.

“It will be great fun Artanis! And besides, is there any better way to win the people’s affection and endear yourself to them? You love to dance do you not?”

But that was all that passed between them before Melian’s maidens hurried her off to a dressing room, running in and out as they brought all manner of costumes and jewelry, trying each on her in turn with all of the enthusiasm of children dressing a doll, at last deciding on a creamy silk trimmed in elegant golden embroidery with pearls. The fabric was as thin as gossamer, so thin in fact that she felt almost naked. The pants reached up to her waist and down almost as far as her ankles, being loose throughout the garment but tightly fitted at the ankles and waist. 

They dressed her also in a sort of sleeveless bodice of stiff creamy silk that was cut just below her breasts, leaving her entire midriff exposed, with a scoop neck so low and tight fitting that she worried she could hardly move at all without indecently revealing herself. To the shoulder of this bodice they pinned a richly embroidered length of silk that they pleated and wrapped about her body, fastening it at her waist with a belt of hammered gold and pearls. 

About her neck they hung gold necklaces of various lengths and onto her ankles and wrists they slid dozens of golden bangles and strings of tiny bells until she felt as if she were nearly encrusted in gold and jewels. They combed her hair out long, freeing it from the constraining braids she had styled it in, and on her head they placed an ornate golden headdress decorated with white blossoms. Her face they painted in an exotic manner, with rouge at her cheeks and soft white powder for her face, her eyes they rimmed in black kohl, her lips they painted with a red tincture. 

And, when at last she looked at herself in the mirror that they offered her, she found not that she faced a stranger, but rather, that she was presented with an aspect of herself, a prism almost, that she had never known existed: a Noldorin girl in Sindarin clothing; a self that she had never imagined she could be, yet now that she saw it she found that she could not look away and a smile slowly began to spread across her face. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon she shrugged of concern and worry. Perhaps she could fit in here after all. At any rate, she thought, standing, she would dazzle them with her dancing, not the staid and rigid dances of the Noldor that she despised, nor the mysterious and exotic ones of the Sindar that she could not hope to imitate, but the wild and fiery ones of her heart, the ones she had danced by herself as a young maiden in the gardens of Lorien.

So it was with her head held high and an abundance of confidence in her step that the most beautiful daughter of Finwe’s house followed Melian’s cheerful maidens back towards the great hall and the raucous cheer that rose up as she entered brought a grin to her lips. She fixed her gaze upon the end of the hall where Melian, Thingol, and Luthien stood applauding and even Finrod had risen to his feet in amazement, laughing in pleased incredulity at the incredible metamorphosis that his sister had undergone. 

Yet of all those gathered there, her eyes quickly caught on that one man who always seemed to draw her eye, the prince, Celeborn. Like the other members of the royal family who sat upon the dais, he too had risen as she entered, and, like them, a look of astonishment had crossed his handsome face, but where the others cheered and showed open admiration, he had quickly schooled his expression into one of calculation, as though she were a warrior he meant to challenge and this were a battle more than a dance. 

The momentary glance of wonder that he had directed towards her was one she had seen many times before in the eyes of many a man, but the second more prolonged gaze, as if he were drinking her in with his brilliant green eyes, turning over every facet of her mind; that unspoken challenge was something that no man had ever dared to direct at her. Audacity: she added it to the list of traits she had mentally ascribed to him. 

Artanis raised her chin proudly, leveling her eyes with his, feeling her lips curl into a smile. She might have thought that such a thing would offend her…but instead she found that…that it inspired her, that she found herself rising to that challenge and she was struck by the sudden desire to surpass it, to show him things he had never seen before, amaze him to such an extent that he would no longer be able to hide his amazement at the sight of her. She wanted…she found herself wanting to turn his calculating look into…something else, she knew not what. She only knew that if she could but make him smile at her once, then she would care not at all if every other elf in this hall despised her dancing.

The music swelled and Luthien took the floor while Artanis paced back and forth, but she only feigned to watch her friend’s dance, for her mind, once fixed upon the object of its thought, was entirely bent upon it and so, instead of watching Luthien, she directed many a covert glance towards the Sindarin prince. It seemed she was as intrigued by him as he seemed to be by her, for she found his face exceedingly handsome, his hair, silver as a moonbeam, exceptionally beautiful, and his eyes, green as the leaves in summer, seemed to hold her captive in their depths with the strange darkness that dwelt there, the darkness of the elves who had never seen the light of the trees. Yet it was not a darkness of ignorance, as her cousins had said it would be, but merely a strange and mysterious wisdom so different from their own. She hardly heard the music as she watched him, and he sent many a glance her way as well. ‘He knows,’ she thought, ‘he knows that I fancy him.’ And perhaps he was no less entranced by her, she mused, than she was by him. 

Luthien’s song came to an end and Artanis took the floor. She would dance, not only for herself, but for him as well. “A fast song!” She cried to the musicians, the excitement welling within her like a spring, and they struck up a wild tune filled with fury and power. She closed her eyes and let it course through her, filling her veins until it flowed through her like a pulse, throbbing, her bare foot tapping against the floor along with the wild beat of the drums that echoed all about her. 

And then, slowly at first, she began to dance, drawing the golden veil across her face so that only her eyes were showing, eyes that she boldly fixed upon the prince’s. A silver brow arched up questioningly, as if to ask her what she meant to do, and the beginning of a grin curled the corners of his lips. There was mischief glimmering in his eyes and she knew that Celeborn had bought into her scheme, that he was waiting to see what she would do, and now she would show him.

For a moment she had wondered what she would sing but then the words came to her, words she remembered well though she had listened to the song in secret. It was a Telerin song, one not meant for children, a song that once upon a starlit evening she had happened to hear drifting on the vesper breeze and, wandering out onto the veranda, looked below to see that the one singing was none other than her own mother. Her father had sat enraptured and, though he always looked fondly upon his wife, Artanis had never before seen him look upon her in that way. Yet something about it seemed unspeakably private, intimate, something she was not meant to see, and so she had retreated into the shadows of her room, listening only to the words of the song and committing them to memory.

Her voice rang out clear as a bell into Thingol’s great hall as she turned, drawing the veil away from her face. She was not ashamed, not anymore, not now that the comfort of a month in Doriath had inspired her beauty to return in full force. Her hair, lush and soft as silk glimmered with its famed light, her skin glowed with health. There had never been a man able to resist her, nor would this one; she was determined.

Since my eyes first met yours,  
I feel as if I have gone mad,  
I’ve gone mad, I’ve gone mad,  
And what will they all say,  
When they learn what I’ve done,  
How the sight of your eyes drove me mad,  
Me, the woman who loves no man,  
Though they all love me.

The innumerable bangles and bells jingled about her wrists and ankles as she turned and leapt, her lithe body moving in time with the music. The echo of the drums shook the floor beneath her quick feet and she felt unstoppable. Her eyes caught Finrod’s for a moment, enough to recognize the shock in them, that whatever he had expected it certainly wasn’t this. Of course the Sindar could not understand the Telerin in which she sang, but Finrod certainly could, and the words shocked him with their lustful undertones. But too long had Artanis been stifled in the smothering piety of Aman and now she would do as she pleased, regardless of what her brother thought.

How far I was from madness,  
So secure in my ways,  
Until your eyes cut me to the quick,  
And your lips healed the wound,  
and what will they say,  
when they learn what I’ve done,  
how the sight of your eyes drove me mad.

Gradually she began to move faster and faster, spinning and whirling, leaping high into the air with such energy that the flowers in her headdress began to come loose and scatter about the floor like snow. It was a dance of passion, a wild and untameable dance.  
Her body had never felt more alive and, in her mad spinning, her eyes met the prince’s momentarily to find that they had changed, and perhaps she had inspired him, for his lips were curled in an outright grin now and there was a certain look in his eyes that excited her further, a look of desire laid bare. And at the thought a shiver ran through her that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand straight up although she was perspiring heavily from dancing. 

The beat of your heart whispers,  
In the shadows of my hair  
In the light of my eyes.  
Listen, my lover, to the beat of my love,  
To the music of my bangles about my wrists,  
Where your touch and scent lingers,  
Where forever it will remain,  
For eternity has no hold over us.

‘He knows,’ she thought, ‘he knows that I am dancing for him.’ Just then the music rose to a crescendo then just as suddenly died, and Artanis sank into a low bow before the dais, at the feet of Elu Thingol, breathing hard, her face flushed, the filmy fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin.

“Come now!” Luthien cried in excitement, running forward and taking her friend’s hand, pulling her back until she was forced to tear her eyes away from the prince, and turning her to face the crowd, “let us see which one of us shall be proclaimed the winner!” Having so said, she raised her hands in the air, provoking a great cheer from the crowd. But then Artanis stepped forward, raising her hands, and the crowd cheered equally as loud for her. 

“You have met your match Luthien!” She cried to her friend. 

But Luthien laughed and said, “be not so hasty Artanis! Let us try again!” And she stepped forward once more, raising her hands to the crowd, yet the cheer was no louder than when Artanis stepped forward for the second time and, after the third time they had repeated the exercise with no clear winner, Thingol rose to his feet.

“Very well!” He cried. “The people are locked in a stalemate but I have devised a manner in which to decide the victor! The decision cannot fall to Finrod, for Artanis is his sister, nor can it fall to Melian or myself as Luthien is our daughter. So, instead, I call upon the Prince Celeborn to cast the deciding vote! Surely my chief counselor will give us an unbiased decision!” Yet even as Celeborn rose to his feet, both Luthien and Finrod cried out in protest.

“Nay! For he is Luthien’s cousin and shall therefore choose his kin!” Finrod cried. 

But Luthien protested differently, saying; “he cannot give an unbiased opinion, for I have already seen his answer in his eyes!”

“What say you Celeborn?” Thingol asked, turning to his nephew. “Whose dance did you find most inspiring?”

“The Lady Artanis is the winner,” Celeborn said with a smile, causing half of the hall to erupt in shouts of joy and the other in cries of displeasure, seeming for a moment to revel in the pandemonium he had incited. His eyes flickered to hers for a brief moment before he turned away, laughing, but Artanis had no time to observe him further for in the next moment Luthien had leapt into her arms, embracing her tightly.

“Quite the lady you must be to inspire the heart of my nephew, Artanis!” Thingol called by way of congratulations. “For he spurns the sun more than any other!”

“Oh well done Artanis! Well done!” Luthien cried, laughing, for she was one of those rare few who had the grace to handle defeat as well as victory. “I have never seen my cousin look at anyone the way that he looks at you!” She whispered, giggling, into Artanis’s ear. And Artanis turned to glance back at him once more, yet all that she saw was his retreating back as he left the hall and Thingol, watching him as he left, with a strange and suspicious look upon his face.

*****

Doriath’s mornings were clean, sterile, all empty halls and quiet corridors. One could nearly walk through the entirety of the city unseen and it was in this solitude and silence that Artanis delighted. She knew not where the light came from, only that it seemed to shine through the stone foliage of the trees that towered high above her, though certainly there could be no sun inside the cave. Yet, the rays that fell upon her were warm and she watched the dust filter through them, glimmering like so many grains of crystalline sand.

She sighed happily, and the sound of it filled the silence around her as she wandered through the adamantine forest. It was a true shame that the Sindar made a habit of sleeping through the dawn, when all came to life. Small brown and white birds with yellow throats flitted about her, chirping, landing on the low branches of the trees and cocking their heads quizzically, looking at her with their bright black eyes. She held out her finger but they would not land upon it; she had only been there a few months and they were still suspicious of her. She smiled and continued her stroll, tiny red and blue salamanders darted across her path, their webbed feet pattering across the floor. They too stopped and looked at her, tiny scaly chests expanding and contracting rapidly with excitement. 

She laughed, settling herself upon the grassy floor and the salamanders showed none of the temerity of the birds. They climbed into her lap, playing there, running up and down her arms, iridescent colors sparkling in the early morning light. What a magical world this was, full of magical things. One of the salamanders climbed up her body, up her face, perching upon her nose. She watched as he blinked at her with big inquisitive eyes, moving his head close, then far, then close again and suddenly they all leapt down, scurrying away and diving into a nearby stream. She stood and walked along the stream, the carp following her, mouthing at the surface, hoping that she would toss them a tasty morsel or two.

Yes, Morgoth was here in Ennor; that was true. Yet to her it seemed that this place was more full of life, more alive itself, than all of Aman. Even in this cave she felt far freer than she had in the wide avenues of Valinor or the radiant gardens of Lorien. She startled a frog as she walked by and it jumped into the water with a croak. Bending down, she watched it as it dove beneath the water and disappeared underneath a wealth of white and yellow water lilies. 

The surface of the water rippled, revealing a face reflected back at her, and she looked up, surprised. Her eyes met his, green like the leaves in summer. The silver haired prince was standing across from her, on the other side of the brook, hands in the pockets of his breeches, barefoot. But his expression was different than the last time she had seen him some weeks ago. There was no challenge there, no astonishment, no desire, merely a polite smile. Without a word he stepped across the stream and walked away amongst the trees, stopping when she did not follow and turning back to motion to her. She pointed at herself and he nodded, grinning.

She followed him, curious, intrigued by the self-secure way that he strode through the palace, just as she had been intrigued by the way he had walked through the forest canopy on the night of her arrival. Surely, there could be nothing more representative of this land than him: just as alive, just as mysterious, just as interesting; she was entirely fascinated. He stopped at the base of a tree, whistling, and the tiny brown and white birds darted out, fluttering about before they settled upon his extended arm it in a row, nestling close together. He spoke to them softly, then beckoned to her and this time they did not fly away at her approach but sat still. She stretched out her hand but then stopped, pausing, looking to him for confirmation that she could touch them. He nodded and, gently, she stroked their fluffy breasts and the smooth feathers along their backs. 

“Aew,” he said, tilting his head towards the little birds.

“Aew,” she repeated. He lifted his arm, speaking to them once more, and they stirred, flying back into the branches of the tree.

“Celeborn,” he said, placing one hand across his broad chest.

“Yes…I know who you are,” she said in broken Sindarin with an awkward smile, a bit unsure what he meant by it. He laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, rich and welcoming, with no hint of prejudice or haughtiness. 

“Celeborn,” he said again, pointing to himself.

“Oh, you want me to say it?” She asked in Quenya, but he showed no signs of understanding. “Well, alright then…” She raised her head and smiled. “Mae g’ovannen Celeborn,” she said and he smiled at her words. There was something so pure and simple about it that she could not help but smile as well. She pointed at herself now, “Artanis.”

“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo Artanis Finarfiniel,” he said and she smiled, pleased to note that his voice had the same deep rich quality as his laugh.

“Quenya! That was Quenya! Did my brother teach you?” She said, and the prince looked pleased at her words.

“Náto,” he replied but said nothing else and Artanis took that to mean that it was the extent of his Quenya.

“Why are you awake this early?” She tried to say in Sindarin, returning the favor, but her Sindarin was still not well developed and, besides, her pronunciation was quite poor. And yet, she was determined not to slip back into Green Elven; the only way to learn Sindarin was to speak it, after all. It seemed that he did not understand her, cocking his head in a curious way, as the salamanders had done. She was embarrassed, unaccustomed to failure, and dropped her gaze, blushing, but he reached out, touching her arm to draw her attention, and she looked back up to see him pantomiming waking up. 

“Yes!” She gestured at him, “you, waking up, why?” He shook his head.

“No,” he said, then pantomimed going to sleep. “I will sleep.” He said and she nodded. He pointed at her.

“Oh, me? I…Melian…waiting.” She managed to get out, pointing in the general direction of the weavers’ quarters. He nodded and, with a smile, waved farewell to her before wandering off in the opposite direction from which he had come. He was very curious indeed, unique in that he was not intimidated by her. And smiling to herself, she could not help but think once more about how very handsome he was. It had been a very long time indeed since any man had piqued her interest and, even then, it had never been anything more than a fleeting fancy with which she soon grew irritated, yet there was something different about this prince of the dark elves, something that intrigued her, something that she could not quite put her finger on. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the night she had danced for him some weeks ago.

Melian had not yet arrived and Artanis was glad, for she liked to prepare her loom by herself and found herself distracted when others were about. The looms lay quiet, like great slumbering beasts, and she walked through them until she reached her own, stopping to examine the weaving that she had done the day before. Compared to her previous work it was superior, the weave was even and the fabric was not warped at all. Yet, she still had not managed to capture the magic of it, the way that the cloth of the Sindar seemed to blend and merge with shadow and light, making them near invisible when they chose to be.

“You are doing well, my daylight child.” The voice came from behind her, deeper and smokier than a woman’s wont, Melian. Artanis turned to see the dark haired queen approaching slowly, a gentle sway in her hips and a mysterious smile upon her face, as always. She held a large spool of gray thread in her hands that seemed to move and shimmer with the light, almost as though it were alive. “Do not worry yourself. That will come in time.” Melian sifted through Artanis’s mind as easily as a fish in water before Artanis could recoup and throw up her walls. She felt the Queen shrink away.

“Why so slow today Artanis?” Melian asked with a gentle laugh, setting the spool down on Artanis’s loom, perhaps with more force than she had intended, for the sound resonated throughout the room. Melian jumped a bit, surprised at herself. Such occurrences were not particularly rare; she often underestimated her own strength. Indeed, many a time Artanis had seen her inadvertently break things: a crystal goblet clutched too tightly shattered in her hand, her own golden crown warped as she went to remove it, even stone sometimes shattered at her footfall. She always seemed startled and somewhat embarrassed on these occasions, fixing each thing with the selfsame hand that had broken it while Artanis looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen. 

What for all of the years that she had inhabited an elven body and for all of her wisdom, she did not seem to understand her own strength well, was confused by it even, just as lightening strikes simply because it is lightening with no consideration of the power it wields, or as a waterfall thunders over a cliff solely because it is water and the cliff is there, with no understanding of the pressure it exerts upon the rocks below. Artanis had the utmost respect for Melian, was thankful for all that she was teaching her, but she could not deny that she was also afraid of her for Melian was fay indeed, not an elf with supernatural powers, but a supernatural power itself cloaked in the form of an elf, that sometimes did not pull that cloak about itself tightly enough to maintain that pretense accurately. Melian set about preparing her loom and Artanis busied herself with doing the same. 

“Does no one else ever wake in the mornings?” Artanis asked.

“I have no need for sleep,” said Melian, carefully examining each warp thread to be sure that none of them had slipped from their places. “But no, aside from myself, the others generally sleep quite late into the day unless there is great need for them to awake. They prefer the night to the day. On occasion, however, you may see the march wardens coming and going, for they do so at all hours of the day and night, defending Doriath from harm. But what you really mean, as I have seen in your mind, is ‘does Prince Celeborn often wake in the mornings’ and the answer to that is ‘no’.” She smiled, seemingly pleased with the quandary into which she had just thrown the Valinorean maid, as she passed her shuttle across the loom and it began to whir to life as her feet operated the treadle. 

“I see,” Artanis said merely, a blush spreading across her face, disconcerted by the way that Melian was so easily able to see into her mind. Yet, at the thought of Celeborn she grinned, biting her lip to conceal her expression from the queen. Settling herself upon her bench, she took her shuttle in hand, beginning to weave as well, letting the energy from her hands pass into the thread and her thoughts turned to her weaving. 

“Those were no dances of Valinor that I saw you perform,” Melian said with a smile and a small laugh. Artanis turned towards her, surprised at the queen’s joking tone.

“Nay,” she replied, laughing and shaking her head. “For the dances of Valinor seem so ill-suited to this place, so stiff and staid. Instead I danced those dances of my own creation, that I used to dance when I was young and wandered the gardens of Lorien on my own, for they seemed to speak to my heart more truly and, perhaps, to be more suitable to this place.

“I find that I must agree with you,” Melian said, “for the dances of Aman were also too formal for my taste. Thus it was that I left that place and sought to wander here, where I might dance freely beneath the stars, and so dancing, it seems that I was myself ensnared in another dance: the dance of fate.”

“I sometimes wonder if it was fate itself that brought me here as well,” Artanis said and Melian smiled as though she knew a great secret and meant to guard it still.

“I almost thought,” she said mysteriously, “that when you danced I could see Laurelin in all her splendor. But oh!” She cried, as if struck by a sudden pain, “I had almost forgotten that she is no more! Never did I think that such tragedy would befall Aman. When Dairon and Mablung brought us that news from the Mereth Aderthad both the King and I spent many an hour in grief over the loss of those trees.”

“Indeed,” Artanis replied, “never have I known a sadder day.” But it was a lie and she could not bring herself to meet Melian’s gaze, for the queen would surely discern her falsehood in their depths. Thoughts unbidden swarmed to the surface of her mind, the reflection of the prince’s silver hair in the stream, the bloody corpses of the silver-haired Teleri floating in the water beside the quay, how the sea foam had been stained incarnadine.

Finrod’s words echoed in her head, ‘It may not matter that everyone is sworn to secrecy; it may be that one day she will collapse in one of her fits and divulge the entire secret for everyone to hear. How can we trust her when she could so easily and accidentally betray us?’ No! She mustn’t allow the visions to overcome her. She shut her eyes, concentrating, praying that she would have the strength to push them back.

“Artanis?” She heard Melian’s concerned voice and her head cleared, her eyes snapping open. Breathing deeply, she attempted to steady her hands, conscious of the fact that Melian had ceased her weaving and was now eyeing her with worry. “Is there something the matter? For, as ever, when I speak the name of Laurelin you grow silent, as though some fell shadow has passed over your heart. ”

“Nay, Nay!” Artanis laughed, too cheerfully perhaps. “I…I merely grow frustrated with my cloth. It seems I have botched it yet again.” A convenient excuse, for there was truth in it. Despite her best efforts, she was yet entirely incapable of weaving the cloaks that the Sindar wore.

She frowned, frustrated, turning her mind fully to her weaving for already it had begun; the cloth that she produced was fine cloth, but the magic of it was not right. Where that woven by Melian and the Sindarin maids melded effortlessly with shadow and moonlight, turning the wearer himself into a mere shadow, Artanis’s cloth seemed to catch the light and radiate it, making the fabric glow, performing quite the opposite function of protecting the wearer. Beleg and Mablung’s marchwardens would never be able to wear the clothes that she produced, not if they did not want to be shot. It was useless, her pursed lips tightened over her teeth. 

“Hm… Artanis, my golden child…” Melian rose, moving to Artanis’s loom and stroking the cloth with her fingers, seeming to have forgotten the awkwardness of just a few moments earlier, or else having decided to further her investigation at a later date. “If you wish to weave the night itself into this fabric then you must come to love the night. This is finely woven cloth but it is full of the day, of sunshine and radiance and warmth. If you can learn to make it absorb these things instead, rather than reflecting them…well then, then you shall have the key.”

“It is useless,” said Artanis, her jaw clenching in frustration, mad at herself. She was not accustomed to being tasked with things she could not properly complete and it irritated her extremely. And she wanted to say more, to explain that feeling, but Melian mandated that she only speak Sindarin to her and, overcome by that sentiment of failure, Artanis could not find the words.

“Do not be hasty and proud my sun child,” Melian reprimanded her. “It is different but it is not useless. I am certain that, given time, you shall master the technique.”

“I certainly hope so,” Artanis replied with a huff.

“Have you always been so impatient?” Melian asked with a smile and Artanis understood how Thingol had come to love her despite all of her fierceness, for when Melian smiled it seemed as though the whole world itself was smiling at you.

 

Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo – (Quenya) a star shines upon the hour of our meeting

Náto – (Quenya) yes


	5. Of Fish and Frogs

  
**Of Fish and Frogs**  
Doriath: 5th Chapter

*****

“Life is too bitter already, without territories and wars and noble feuds”   
_– T.H. White, The Once and Future King_

*****

**Author’s note:** Thank you for reading! As always, comments and discussion are welcomed and much appreciated! The snare begins to tighten…even as romance begins to blossom… Meanwhile, Finrod discovers that politics in Menegroth are just as convoluted and annoying as those in Aman. And…Oropher is going to be introduced in all his glory in the next few chapters so get excited!

My thanks to anyone who followed or favorited and special thanks to Oleanne and EverleighBain who took the time to write lovely reviews!

*****

The march wardens sparred once a week; a raucous event that often devolved into fistfights and ended with trips to the healers and tankards of beer, which was perhaps why Artanis had taken to watching, for it reminded her of the games that they sometimes held in Valinor, in which she had participated and triumphed many a time. Yet today she was not merely watching. Today she had been pushed into the ring, protesting all the way, to battle a square-jawed Sindarin march warden by none other than Finrod himself, who had been goaded on by Celeborn. She had emerged triumphant, clambering back to safety over the fence, but it was only just barely so, for Celeborn had told her at the start of the fight that the girl was a master with hunting knives. Thus, Artanis had been surprised indeed to find herself suddenly tackled to the ground and put in a headlock while the Sindarin spectators whooped and laughed.

“He said she was skilled with knives but she is a wrestler!” Artanis pointed an accusing finger at the prince, who grinned, getting the general gist of what she was saying even if he did not understand the Quenya. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and laughed before speaking to Finrod, a conversation from which Artanis only managed to glean snippets of meaning.

“He wants to know if you always trust information from your adversaries.” Finrod laughed gleefully, and Artanis glowered at the grinning faces of her brother and his friend. Yet, despite their fun at her expense, she did not feel excluded, not the way that she had as a child when Maedhros or Curufin had refused to let her play with them; it felt different somehow, like an invitation almost.

“Well if he likes tricks so much then tell him to fight me himself and I will show him a trick or two.” Artanis said to her brother. “What are they saying?” She asked, for the Sindar were chanting now.

“They want to see the Noldorin girl fight again.” Her brother said, grinning. 

One more look at Celeborn’s taunting face swept away any hesitation that she might have had and filled her instead with pure bravado. It was that same look, that same challenge that he had wordlessly issued her after her dance and she felt that same fire burning in her once more. There was no fear in her. 

Artanis blew air out of her nose and laughed. “Very well.” With a broad grin she leapt back over the barrier, agile body lithe as a deer, the dust of the tournament ground rising in a mist about her booted feet as she spun her golden spear over her head, eliciting the roar from the crowd that she had wished for. “Is this what you wish?” She called to the people, no longer fearing whether Sindarin was proper or not, merely letting the words flow from her, laughing like a madwoman. If possible, they cheered even more loudly, clapping their hands, stomping their feet, laughing, and she was sure that she saw coins changing hands, bets being placed. The wildness of it all, the lack of restraint fueled her.

But, most of all, she noticed that the prince had forgotten whatever it was that Finrod had been speaking to him about and, instead, she now had his undivided attention. He stood against the barrier, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed upon her. Poised, Artanis extended her long spear at her side, its wicked golden blade, long as a man’s arm, glinting in the sun, its shaft of polished ivory, as long as she was tall, extending far behind her. There was, thankfully, a slight breeze that lifted and dried her sweat-soaked shirt even as it threatened to loosen tendrils of hair from her braid. Then she raised her empty hand to point at Celeborn, saying; “so you like your tricks Prince of Doriath? Fight me then!” She roared in her unpolished Sindarin. And, despite the brashness of her words, and the fact that she doubted she would emerge the victor, her heart fluttered with wild, mad anticipation.

“As you wish.” Celeborn shouted back in equally unrefined Quenya, grinning broadly as he leapt over the barricade. They moved towards the center of the ring and Artanis noticed the relaxed and comfortable way in which he gripped his battle-axe, a seasoned veteran who had seen many battles.

The Doriathrin elves did not use the thick, heavy, bulky sort of axes that she had already seen the dwarves carrying. Rather, only the edge of the blade was made of metal while the center was cut out, creating a very light and aerodynamic shape. On the opposite end was a long sharp knife-like blade and the handle was of mithril, shining and bright, with a grip of wrapped leather. She heard the blade sing as he swung it in a circular motion through the air, causing the Sindar around her to begin cheering wildly. More money changed hands.

They reached the center and he bowed to her, then extended the axe in front of him, his strong forearms steady. Artanis bowed back, touching the tip of her spear against the axe blade, and met his unreadable eyes. But he did not move, his breathing even and regulated, his face impassive, and they stood with blades meeting for a long moment. There was nowhere she could strike that was undefended and so she slowly pressed her spear against the axe, testing it, trying to force an opening. But he moved forward, pressing back, and she was forced to retreat, glancing down at the proximity of the blades and, in that singular instant, he moved and she suddenly found the blade of his axe a mere hair’s breadth from her forehead. Looking up, her eyes met his again and she dropped her spear in defeat. 

The Sindar cheered and Artanis grabbed her spear up from the dirt, returning to the center of the ring, looking back at Celeborn, daring him, her eyes full of laughter. “Come on then,” she goaded him. “Let’s have another go.” He consented with a smile, returning and pressing his blade against hers once more. 

“Sure you are not too distracted, Princess?” He asked her in a low and quiet voice.

“You are not interesting enough to distract me,” she shot back, a bold-faced lie if ever there was one. And yet her barb had not distracted him it seemed for he came after her with all the force and cold ferocity of before. She made sure not to look away this time though his dark eyes unsettled her; there was none of the light in them that the Noldor had in their own. They sent a chill down her spine, unsettled her, for she could discern nothing from them, and yet they were very beautiful eyes indeed, the verdant color of summer leaves. 

But, as a cheer resounded about them she realized, belatedly, that she was about to lose for, though she had protected her head, already the axe was whistling towards her wrist, stopping just as the metal was about to kiss her flesh. Injury this time rather than death, but she was forced to drop her spear to the dirt once more. Her heart pounded within her chest, more from frustration than exertion. He had beaten her in two bouts and could thereby have ended the match now, but instead Celeborn returned to the center for the final bout and she followed him eagerly, glad that it was not yet over. 

“Dance,” he whispered with a grin, “as you did before. But this time, I want you to dance with me,” and she stilled her beating heart, forced herself to remain calm, as impassive as he was. And they danced, never looking away, eyes boring into each other’s. This time she forced him to maintain a proper distance, never letting him come close enough to move his axe past the tip of her spear, she did not look down, perceiving what was in the peripheral instead. For each step he forced from her she forced one from him until they moved in unison, a perfect machine. She vaguely heard, as though from far away, the whistles of the crowd, for the tension was mounting as minutes passed and neither swung. 

Then Artanis thought she saw an opening and struck fast, a good strike that left her unexposed so that he was forced to block her rather than striking in return. But he pivoted around her and it was she who was forced to block this time. They circled, weapons locked together, mere centimeters from each other’s faces, trying to judge the precise moment when they could leap away unharmed. Artanis saw it and leapt, pushing against him hard, using the momentum to spring backwards until they had reestablished distance and the blades came up again, tip to tip, circling once more. The watchers were going wild now and she thought she could hear Finrod’s deep laughter amongst the voices.

It was Celeborn who struck now, fast, and she brought her sword to her side to block the blow aimed there but, as soon as she did, his blade was no longer there. Instead, it was flying towards her face now and she brought her blade up to counter, catching his against it in the nick of time. It was enough to save herself but not enough to win. The knife end of his axe was between her eyes and her spear pressed up against it, preventing it from burying itself there. Her heart pounded; he had not scored a kill stroke nor an injury even, but a threat. He had won. If he had wanted to push down, break her wrists, he could have killed her, but he released his grip and, as they backed away slowly, bowing to each other once more, she found herself lamenting not that she had lost, but that it had lasted such a short time. 

Celeborn smiled as they exited the arena, leaping over the barrier, and waved to those who were cheering loudly before turning to her and saying something. She shook her head, indicating that she did not understand, and he repeated himself. When she still could not comprehend he spoke to Finrod.

“He says you fight well.” Her brother said. “But not as well as him.” 

“I cannot discern whether that is supposed to be a compliment or an insult,” she replied, unsure of how to respond.

“Coming from Celeborn I would assume that it is both,” Finrod replied. Yet, putting her somewhat wounded pride aside, Artanis found that she was not insulted. Indeed, she was a bit intrigued. With Celeborn, each taste left her wanting more.

“In Valinor they always let me win.” She said to Celeborn in broken Sindarin. He cocked his head and looked at her quizzically. “They let me win.” She said again, being more careful of her pronunciation. He nodded.

“I would not like it if someone let me win.” He said, having to repeat himself so that she understood.

“I did not.” She said. He nodded in acknowledgement and smiled, extending a hand to her. 

She took it as he replied, “that is good, seeing as how I do not intend to ever let you beat me.” They shook hands and Artanis felt a soaring sense of accomplishment at the knowledge that he had found her a worthy rival and, moreover, treated her as such. Then there was the fact that Celeborn was exceedingly adept at bringing out the competitive edge in her. Artanis bit her lip, excitement still coursing through her as her eyes flickered back to his.

“Celeborn Galadhonian!” A deep voice shouted, followed by a rich laugh like the roar of a waterfall. The three of them turned to see a wild looking elf strutting about the ring, axe in hand. A raucous whooping arose from the Sindar. 

“Ah…this will be the final match then,” Finrod whispered to her. It was difficult to hear him over all of the wild cheering and Artanis had to lean her head close to her brother’s to be heard.

“Why is that?” She asked.

“That is Mablung,” Finrod replied, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world, grinning as Artanis turned her eyes to the elf stalking about the ring. The golden rays of the sun paid him absolute tribute. He was a monolith of thick bulky muscles and corded strength over bronzed skin. He had a strong jaw and dark mahogany hair that was shaved on the sides but there was a strip of longer hair down the center of his head that stood straight up and a long braid that hung in the back, nearly down to his waist. He was barefoot, clad only in fawn colored deerskin leggings, his ears ornamented with many silver earrings. And, upon his back was a large black tattoo. Artanis thought him most fearsome and wonderful. 

“He is the chief of the march wardens.” Finrod replied. “Remember? You met him at Mereth Aderthad.”

“How could I forget one such as him?” She replied with a laugh. Mablung shouted something else and Celeborn leapt onto the fence, perching there like a squirrel, a mischievous look upon his face, replying to Mablung in words that she did not understand. Then the Sindarin prince stripped off his tunic and the soaked cotton shirt beneath, laying them over the fence. He too was heavily muscled and darker of skin than she, but not nearly as dark Mablung. Nor did he have the thick bulky musculature of the chief warden, though he certainly could not be called slight of build, he was more slender but just as solid, and taller than the other elf besides. Artanis leaned forward against the fence to see better, for everyone was pressing against each other now, eager to see the fight.

“But why should it be over?” She asked, disappointed.

“Because there is no one who can beat Mablung,” Finrod said.

“Even you and Prince Celeborn?” She asked, incredulous. Finrod laughed.

“I’m glad that you have such a high opinion of me little sister!” Artanis elbowed him. “But yes, there is none who is a match for Mablung, except Beleg sometimes. He is the other chief of the march wardens but tends to favor the bow rather than the axe. However, we should be able to see Celeborn get a few good strikes in before he is finished for he is a strong warrior indeed, stronger than I maybe.” He laughed, crying out to taunt his silver-haired friend in words that Artanis did not understand.

Celeborn and Mablung were circling each other now and though she did not understand their words, she could tell by their tone that they were taunting one another. 

“What are they saying?” She asked her brother, but Finrod only laughed.

“Words that are not fit for a lady’s ears,” he replied.  
Suddenly Mablung lunged, fierce and powerful as an ox, but Celeborn caught his strike on the edge of his axe blade and calmly knocked the dark-haired elf’s axe away. Artanis was please to see that Celeborn, in fact, had not been flattering her. He employed the same style and force as he had used with her with Mablung. She was also fascinated to see the great diversity in the fighting style of the Sindar. Mablung was aggressive, bold, powerful; he reminded Artanis of an eagle, his keen eyes searching for prey that he would swoop down on and instantly decimate upon discovery. Meanwhile, Celeborn reminded her of a viper, equally aggressive though quiet and hidden, relying more upon cunning than brute strength, poised to deliver a lethal dose of venom should the opportunity present itself. 

Then Mablung struck, a lightening fast blow, and Celeborn could not quite bring his axe up in time to block it. The march warden stopped the blade of his axe a mere hair’s breadth from the prince’s silver head, causing Celeborn to drop his own axe, surrendering, and a round of cheers mixed with booing arose from the spectators as, laughing, the two contestants returned to the center of the ring to begin their second match. 

“Who do you support?” Artanis asked her brother.

“Well Celeborn is my mentor so I support him of course,” Finrod said, clapping. “You?”

“I don’t particularly care, though I suppose that some vindictive part of me would like to see Celeborn knocked on his ass,” she grinned. 

“He would probably deserve that, in all honesty,” Finrod laughed. “He can be quite the overconfident handful at times and he has a ferocious temper when provoked.”

“Really? And here I was thinking that he seemed so reserved.” She replied. Celeborn was striking aggressively and incessantly at Mablung’s middle now. So much so that Mablung had no chance to get a strike in himself.

“Quiet, yes. Reserved, no. Celeborn is extraordinarily…blunt…about his opinions and likely to offer them whether they are desired or not.”

“Hm…whatever does he hope to achieve with that strategy?” Artanis mused, observing the prince striking incessantly at his opponent. “He is tiring himself out.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue…” Finrod replied as Celeborn struck again at Mablung’s middle and Mablung went to block it, almost lazily, clearly getting annoyed with Celeborn’s incessant blows. But, as the dark-haired elf brought his axe in position to block the prince’s blow, Celeborn changed the trajectory of the strike. Mablung belatedly realized his error and tried to bring his axe up but there simply was not enough time. The shining blade of Celeborn’s axe was pointing steadily at the space between his opponent’s eyes. Another round of cheers and boos rose up into the air and the two competitors approached the center of the ring for their final bout. The crowd was going wild.

The two circled each other once more but it was obvious that Celeborn had clearly expended a great amount of energy in order to land a blow on Mablung and he moved more slowly now while his rival showed no signs of tiring. Now it was the dark-haired ox of an elf that rained down blow after blow upon his silver-haired rival. The elves moved closer and closer, axes locked together, and then Mablung slipped his foot behind Celeborn’s, pulling his legs out from under him. Simultaneously he knocked the wind out of the prince by thrusting the shaft of his axe into his chest. Celeborn fell with an ignominious thud as his posterior connected with the dusty earth. A great cheer went up from Mablung’s supporters and the elf leapt about the ring, swinging his axe in the air. Celeborn was clapping and Mablung stopped to help him up, the two embracing and slapping each other on the back as they exchanged words with a smile before climbing out of the ring. Finrod and Celeborn clasped hands and spoke as the Sinda leapt back over the barrier.

“We are going to go drink with the others. If you care to join us the prince says you are welcome to do so.”

“Oh, no, but thank you. I must return to Melian now for, as you can see, I have not been practicing Sindarin as much as I should.” She replied, nevertheless pleased that they thought she was worth drinking with and secretly wishing she could join them. Yet it was off to the kitchens with her to learn how to make lembas. 

“Very well then sister, I shall see you later I expect.” Finrod said as he and Celeborn set off with the others. It was with reluctance that she watched them go, a reluctance that was increased when the prince turned around to direct one last grin at her.

*****

These Noldor think that they can come into our lands and take whatever they want, do whatever they want. The Feanorians treat your decrees as a mere afterthought at best, explicitly ignoring you. Will you now raise up another wolf in the lamb’s pen? It is only a matter of time until its true nature takes over and it turns on us.” It seemed as though steam was about to spill out of Saeros’s ears, so wroth was he.

Celeborn looked down the long table towards Finrod, hoping that the passionate Noldo would not take Saeros’s bait. Truth be told, he was a bit of an extremist and Celeborn had never taken much of a liking to him, though he kept company with his cousin, Oropher. 

“My king, I ask that I not be judged by the actions of my cousins. I assure you, I am my own person and I act as I see fit, not in imitation of my relatives. Indeed, I alone, out of all of the Noldo, sought you out here in Menegroth to make your acquaintance and obtain your favor. Could I not simply choose to do as my cousins have, ignoring your orders and building whatever I like wherever I please? Yet I have not done so. In fact, I have habitually done the opposite. I would certainly hope that my actions are proof of my integrity as well as my concern for the well-being of your subjects. Nargothrond would be a fiefdom of Doriath and I your vassal, nothing more.”

At Finrod’s words, a great deal of chatter awoke amongst Thingol’s advisors as they spoke amongst themselves, debating the merits and demerits of such a plan. 

“I must admit,” said Thingol, interrupting the chatter, which died away immediately at the sound of his voice, like birds scattering before a wolf. “I myself am very divided on this issue.” He looked first towards Finrod and his hopeful supporters, then towards Saeros and his staunch conservatives. He stood slowly, pressing his fingertips against the table, and began to pace slowly about the room. They were all of them forced to turn in their chairs to see him, none of them daring to turn their back on the king. But Thingol was not concerned with their discomfort as he paced about. 

“Finrod Finarfinian proposes to establish a fiefdom under my leadership, a Sindarin king with a Noldorin vassal.” Thingol said slowly, considering his thoughts out loud. “This could be an opportunity, a manifestation of cooperation between out peoples. Finrod is right to point out that he had given me no reason to distrust him and, on the contrary, that I have every reason to trust him. Politically, such a union could turn the tide towards more positive future relations and initiate an alliance powerful enough to pose a serious threat to Melkor. Yet there is also the chance that such a move could undermine my authority amongst both Noldor and Sindar. The Noldor could see it as an invitation to further encroach upon Sindarin lands. And, Saeros is right to point out that there is a current of discontent amongst my own people regarding this matter. Each point I consider seems to have an advantage with an equally weighted disadvantage and I find that the scale is balanced, that it does not tilt in either direction.” Thingol’s eyes snapped up to pierce them with his gaze as he returned to his chair and seated himself slowly, taking care to move the long sleeves of his court robes out of the way. 

“That is why I have consulted all of you.” His voice suddenly had a sharp edge to it, as sharp as the look that glinted in his eyes now. The king’s counselors could sense his ire. “Not to hear you squabble.” His gaze rested overly long on Saeros and his people. “None of us here needs to hear these endless arguments in favor and against. Even a child could have already surmised them and yet I have just been forced to recant them all for you. How many more days must we sit here in deadlock?”

Those counselors who had the good sense to look down and either show or feign embarrassment did so. Those that did not quickly looked down upon meeting the king’s icy stare once more. 

“I do not have the patience for this,” said Thingol. “Celeborn, note in your ledger that we will not vote on this today. My temper will not suffer me to endure yet another gridlocked vote for…what is it?”

“The tenth night my lord,” Celeborn said.

“For the tenth night,” Thingol finished. “Please, Celeborn,” the king threw his hands up in abandon, “say something to these fools that they can really chew over this evening. I know you must have some opinion, though I cannot fathom why you have been holding it in so long.” Celeborn stood.

“I would implore you to look at the earth around you. Many of you are old and learned, older than I. Yet even in my relatively short life I have seen many changes. The seasons grow longer then shorter again, rivers run dry, trees grow taller, forests denser, summers hotter, winters colder. What is a fish to do when his lake is no more? Shall he flop about in the mud and insist that the water will come again? Perhaps it will, but he will not live to see it. His utility is destroyed and, with it, his life. Yet consider the amphibians, who were once fishes themselves but now have lungs and feet as well. They can inhabit a wide variety of habitats, unlike the fish, who can go no further than the boundaries of his pond. If I were to scoop him up and put him in a little bowl he could not escape and would have no further purpose than to suit my pleasure. A frog was the same once, as a tadpole, but as he grows he develops legs capable of propelling himself to great heights. It is a difficult matter: to capture a frog, for he can go wherever he wishes. Will you cling resolutely to your pond until the water runs dry and you are left gasping on the shore? Or, will you grow legs and walk into the forest”

“And which would you do?” Saeros called out, an impish grin upon his smug face.

“If you do not already know then you have clearly not been listening.” Celeborn replied curtly before sitting. “You are all adjourned.” The chatter erupted again as they all rose and, picking up their belongings, moved slowly towards the door. Thingol and Celeborn remained seated.

“A pretty piece nephew. Reminds me of why you are, after all, my chief counselor. I must confess, I was rather agitated with your silence on this matter, quite unlike you to keep your lip buttoned.” Thingol murmured so as not to be overheard.

“It was more than a pretty piece, it was the truth,” Celeborn replied in a whisper so that the others would not overhear as they filtered out of the room. “And, though I support Nargothrond and trust Finrod, I must confess that the idea of the Noldor setting up realms in Beleriand and playing at king does not sit well with me. Still, there is no other way forward and we cannot remain with our heads stuck in the sand, as Saeros would have us do. After the battle of Beleriand we have not the military might to prove a legitimate threat to both the Feanorians and Melkor. Yet with the children of Finarfin as our allies we may have some hope of one day reclaiming those lands. You know it and I know it.”

“That is why this matter is of utmost importance!” Thingol said, agitation in his voice and near desperation in his movements as he rose, pacing quickly to the door as if to make sure that none of his councilors were milling about outside. Celeborn heard the lock click into place as the king bolted the door before returning to sit in the chair beside him. 

“Celeborn,” Thingol said, his voice still hushed despite having assured himself that they were indeed alone. “I do not need to tell you how depleted our army is after this war we have just fought. I know not what evil these princes of Aman have brought with them, but if…if they were ever to attack Doriath…” the King’s voice faltered and then fell silent. “Nay, nay, unthinkable,” he said, shaking his head as though revising his thoughts.

“And yet we have both already thought of it, have we not?” Celeborn replied, tapping his fingertips on the table. The words that Melian had spoken on the night of the arrival of the Noldor may have slept in his mind for a time, but he had not forgotten them.  
“What has Melian foreseen uncle?” 

But Thingol made no reply except to turn their conversation away from that topic, though this action on his part seemed to signify enough. “We need an ally among the Noldorin princes,” he said, his voice hard and firm. “Someone who could come to our aid if the need were to arise, or who could be a powerful political ally amongst the Noldor. Finrod is, somewhat obviously, an ideal choice. Fingolfin’s people are too closely attached to the Feanorians, whom Melian has deemed as dangerous. Yet there is some rift that has opened between Finrod and his cousins. He came here seeking my permission and my financial support yet he brought many a treasure with him out of Tirion and, in truth needs no money from Doriath’s treasuries.”

“He needs support as well and he seeks to bind himself with ties stronger than mere promises,” Celeborn said, a thought he had thought many times before. 

“Yes…” Thingol replied. “He is as a ship unmoored, cut loose from his fellows. Celeborn…” his uncle’s voice seemed to grow weak, “the coming of the Noldor weighs upon my shoulders like a millstone and every day I must contend with the Feanorians or with Melkor slowly moving into lands that used to be ours. Each day our kingdom grows smaller. How long until they are at the borders of our fences?”

“Uncle,” Celeborn reached out, placing a hand on Thingol’s arm, “things are not as dire as you presume. The girdle of Melian will not break and our strength will return. But, yes, I agree with you that the alliance with Finrod is critical, however, might it not be more easily obtained? You need not the council’s assent; you need only decree your decision.”

“No Celeborn, such a move on my part would raise suspicion, for we have never done things in that manner. I can have no rumors milling about, particularly any that might imply that Doriath has grown weak. If word of such matters were to reach the ears of the Noldo then things might go very poorly indeed for our people, especially those in the North who are already suffering from the encroachment of the sons of Feanor.”

“Then the hand is mine to play,” Celeborn said, understanding his uncle’s meaning, and Thingol nodded.

“Is there any whose mind you might be able to turn?” He asked.

“Venessiel.” Celeborn replied without hesitation. “She holds with Saeros’s line now because it seems more profitable and secure to her. But she is reasonable and holds no far fetched ideals about this matter…”

“Venessiel has no ideals about any matter.” Thingol interjected. “It is all business to her.”

“Exactly.”

“So you plan to …persuade her?” Thingol asked. Celeborn nodded and the king shook his head. “I wish you luck then. She is…‘a tough nut to crack’ as the green elves would say.”

“I am well aware of that uncle,” the prince said with a grin as he rose from his chair, “as you may remember.”

“Celeborn,” Thingol said, causing the prince to look back before he exited the room. “I worry that you take this too lightly. This is a matter of the utmost importance. I beg you remember that. I depend upon you, truly.” The prince cracked a grin. 

“I know.” He said before turning and disappearing through the door. But peace was not to be his for as soon as he had exited he was set upon by Finrod, near frantic with worry.

“Celeborn, I don’t know how to thank you for the service you rendered me today!” The Noldo clasped his friend’s hands ardently. “Truly, I thank you from the bottom of my heart!”

“Peace Finrod,” Celeborn placed a calming hand upon his anxious friend’s shoulder. He could not help but smile at the Noldo’s eagerness. “There is still much work that must be done. Walk with me.” The two continued down the hallway.

“Truthfully I did not expect there to be so much opposition to such a simple plan.” Finrod confessed.

“You came to an old land full of old elves long set in their ways and you brought them hope and optimism and new ideas. They will curse you forever for it.” Celeborn said with a sigh and a grin. 

“And yet you are more moderate,” said Finrod, “I am grateful for it.”

“That is why I am the king’s chief counselor and Saeros is not, though he openly yearns for the position. There is no wisdom to be found in extremes and power grubbing.”

“But surely they will listen to you. You are their prince. You are the right hand of the king.” Finrod’s voice betrayed his anxious doubt.

“No I am merely a rather large and cumbersome obstacle that lies in their path and I am sure that they are all at this very moment spinning ideas about how best to clamber over me in pursuit of their own personal ends. Let it not be said that the Noldor alone are guilty of the sin of pride.”

“Then how…” Finrod began but Celeborn stopped and faced his friend.

“Do not worry. I am very good at what I do Finrod. I know my people. Whatever their selfish desires and personal plots, each one of them loves this land as if it were his own mother. What I did in there was plant a seed. But now I must water it, must tend it carefully as it grows and, if I do that, then I promise you it will yield fruit.”

“If my ears don’t deceive me I believe you are saying that you are more clever than they are.” Finrod grinned, some of the tension releasing. 

“Well,” Celeborn grinned and shrugged, “I am.”

“Ever the braggart!” Finrod shook his head and laughed. “But where does the king’s vote lie?” 

“With you. But that won’t do you any good unless we can turn one of Saeros’s people to our side.”

“Can you?”

“With a little bit of help. May I call upon you if I need you?”

“Of course. Thank you Celeborn.” Finrod said but the Sinda waved away the praise. 

“I am a prince of this realm, sworn to protect her. We have endured for many long years against Melkor yet if we are to do so much longer then we must band together.”

*****

“Well now… look who it is.” Venessiel’s voice was a rich purr and it had the tone of a fat lazy cat about to catch a canary. Yet Venessiel resembled anything but that, her lean shapely body stretched out upon a chaise before the fire, its light playing across the perfect supple curves of her breast and hips. She had changed out of her council garments to a more relaxed gown, if one could even call the sheer wine colored sheath a gown. She turned to look at him, her long, mahogany hair cascading over her shoulder. She had a perfect heart-shaped face with elegant brows, wide almond shaped ice blue eyes, and a small dainty mouth. Though her appearance was practically doll-like she exuded a strong sensuality, one could almost smell it emanating from her, and all of it was contrived, which was one of the many reasons that Celeborn disliked her so very much.

“I have been waiting for you.” She said and Celeborn knew it was true. There was nothing Venessiel did that was not precisely calculated. If she had been born a queen she would have been formidable. As the Minister of the Treasury she was perhaps even more fearsome. She gestured to a chair opposite her. “Do you like what you see?” She asked, favoring him with her smoldering gaze. 

“How could I not? Everyone knows that you are an exquisite beauty.” Celeborn replied. She was attractive, he could not deny it, at one time in the past he had rejoiced in it, yet now he found that it was rather like scraping the frosting off of a pastry to find that the inside of it was rotten. Venessiel frowned playfully. 

“Everyone knows…hmph. I don’t care what everyone knows. I want to know what you think. White or red?”

“Red,” he said.

“Of course. You always did prefer red.” Her slender arm reached out to grasp a golden pitcher firmly by the handle and she sat up to pour two goblets of wine. He reached out to take his from her but she withheld it, their eyes meeting over the top of the glass, mere inches apart. “Do you like what you see?” She asked him again, her voice thick with impatience, and Celeborn had to remind himself that, though he was a prince, he was the one who was asking the favor and thus it was he who must curry her favor, as much as he disliked the idea. 

“I like what I see very much.” He said compliantly and she released her grasp on the cup, seeing in his eyes that his answer was true. She settled back against the chaise, toying with her cup. 

“It could have been yours. It very nearly was once, if only you had been bold enough to just take it.” She bit her lip, piercing him with her gaze.

“I am sure that any man would be lucky to have you Venessiel.” He said politically, struggling to keep his head in the right place, annoyed with the inefficiency of getting her to agree to anything.

“I don’t care about any man, I care about you.” She purred.

“Are you not with Mablung now? Does he not satisfy you?” Celeborn asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and meeting her gaze. Very well, if she wanted to play games then he would play along, so long as it got him what he wanted. She never changed. She always had to have power, or the illusion of it and now she was doing that by wasting away the minutes of his life. It would not do to turn her against him now when he needed her support. She laughed.

“He satisfies me well enough,” she drank from her wine. “But never the way that you did, never as well as you did. He hasn’t the mind that you do.”

“Few do.” Celeborn chuckled, sipping from his cup.

“I do.” She said.

“I know,” He replied. That much was undeniable. Despite all of the horrendous problems that their courtship had had, he had never met another woman who had challenged his mind in the way that Venessiel had, that was…until he had met Artanis. Yet she had none of Venessiel’s insidious qualities. No, Artanis was quite different, all joy and radiance. The thought of her was the one ray of sunshine in this otherwise intolerably awkward conversation. 

“But that was a long time ago.” She brushed it away, having gained some silent victory in her mind and then, having perhaps caught the train of his thoughts by his eyes, “I saw the way that you looked at that Noldo girl, the golden haired one. Already there are rumors flying about.”

“I hardly know her.” He said, truthfully. It would remain truth so long as he said nothing else concerning the subject. 

“But you want to know her. I know you.” She pierced him with her gaze. “She is but a child.”

“She is only some 40 odd years younger than I,” he said. “That is a negligible discrepancy in ages. Moreover, you did not seem to mind my age as I recall.” Venessiel was far older, one of the first elves to awaken at Cuivenen, and had wandered the forests with the first Sindar, searching for Thingol when he was lost. It was a fact she often lorded over others.

“So you are interested in her.” Venessiel smiled her catlike smile. “There now, why can we not be honest with each other?” She was satisfied now, having attained the information that she wanted. Celeborn felt some sort of petty anger rise in him as it always had of old. It seemed to be something that only she could bring out, and she was extraordinarily adept at it.

“Then let me be straightforward with you. I do not know why you are supporting Saeros when Finrod’s cause is clearly more advantageous for you.” He said.

“Is it? That is quite the sum of money that he desires. What if he cannot make good on his debt, if his Nargothrond is overrun by orcs and we lose our investment entirely. What credentials has he to prove that he is capable of this? Being a prince of Aman is no proof that he can manage anything properly. He is your friend Celeborn, not mine; I do not know him as well as you do. I need to know that Menegroth will get a sufficient return upon our investment. Thingol trusts me to make sound financial decisions. I must uphold that duty.” She said, tapping her index finger forcefully on the table as she spoke. Her personal qualities may have irked him and he had no doubt that this was exacerbated by their rather intimate history, but he was well aware that Venessiel had a keen mind for business and, so long as the conversation was regulated to that, he did not mind speaking with her at all.

“If I could offer you proof that Finrod knows what he is doing, what then?” Celeborn asked, refilling the wine glasses, more engaged in the conversation now that it was at last going in the direction he desired.

“Then I would be quite amenable to the idea. I know how much Doriath would profit were he to succeed. We could nearly double our economy and our growth. All financial decisions are gambles, no doubt, but I must make well-educated gambles and thus far it has not been proved to me that the risk for this endeavor is low. Do that and you will have me on your side.” Celeborn grinned at her words, pleased at last that he had heard what he wished.

“I have always admired your shrewdness,” he said. “Very well. Allow me to arrange a private meeting for you and Finrod. I am sure that he can put all of your worries to rest.”

“That would be agreeable,” she said, smiling. There was the flash in her eyes that he had always seen whenever she stood to make a profit or win some game. “But I should like you to be there as well.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady.” He stood, straightening his tunic, and she stood as well, surprisingly close to him, her somewhat sadistic icy blue eyes looking up into his own as she played with a strand of his hair, tugging on it, pulling his face down closer to her own.

“You see,” she said, her breath hot against his skin, “sometimes when you do things my way you get what you want.” She moved to brush her lips against his own, but he raised a finger, placing it between their mouths, stopping her. She grinned and laughed. “That confident smugness you have after you win something…I did always like that about you.” She ran her hand down his back as he turned towards the door.

“Until later,” he said.

“Until later,” she replied. The sun was already rising.

Yet it seemed that Celeborn hardly had a few days rest before trouble was upon him again and he must perform yet another onerous duty. He coughed as he descended the stairs into the smithies, his throat already burning from the heat, smoke, and soot and he hadn’t even actually entered them yet. It was the one part of Menegroth that he absolutely detested and his mission was not made any easier by the news that he had come to bear and the displeasure he was sure to incur by delivering it. “Thalaron,” he greeted the dark-haired elven smith whom he on the stairs, a young elf but a skilled one.

“Your royal highness,” the elf replied as he moved past, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing respectfully.

The dwarves, however, laughed, greeting him jovially as they passed him in the stairwell. Some of them teased him with good-natured humor. “Pointy-eared elven princeling can’t handle the heat!” Celeborn grinned and waved them away.

“Frerin, I hope that I find you well,” Celeborn greeted the master armorer as he descended at last into the belly of the smithy. “Nar, Telchar,” he greeted two of the other accomplished dwarven smiths, stopping to admire their work. “What is this?” He asked Telchar, who was working on a very long sword. “This is something very fine indeed.” 

“Thank you laddie!” The dwarf laughed and grinned with pride. There was nothing that made a dwarf happier than an honest compliment to his craftsmanship. “I call this blade Narsil and I mean to make her fit for a king.”

“Indeed, I can see that she shall be,” Celeborn said, and the dwarf nodded his thanks.

“You have business with me Prince Celeborn?” Frerin called, drawing the prince’s attention and the Sinda turned, bidding farewell to the others and heading towards the armorer once more.

“I do indeed Frerin,” Celeborn said, “Though I fear I do not bring the news that you hope for.” The dwarf looked up sharply, anger fomenting in his eyes.

“You cannot be serious…” The dwarf said, a genuinely stunned and perplexed look transforming his face. “He brought us here under the pretext that we would craft goods at his behest, that we would be paid!” The dwarf’s confusion had quickly turned to anger and the other dwarves had taken note, beginning gathering around. Perhaps it was the fact that they now surrounded him, or perhaps it was confronting the issue itself that made Celeborn uneasy, but his instincts were on full alert now, as if he were preparing for battle, his feet poised, his hands twitching for his knife.

“I am very sorry,” he sought to explain. “I did my best to convince him but he maintains that we have no need for metal armor. He believes that he promised you nothing of the sort, that the offer was merely to provide you with the opportunity to use our forges and be protected by our tariff laws so that you could sell your goods at more advantageous prices. Of course, you are free to sell your goods privately, but I regret to inform you that you will receive no contract with the royal house,” Celeborn said.

“The agreement was that Thingol himself would employ our services and that we would be paid well for the goods that we provided him!” Frerin shouted, throwing his hammer down on the floor.

“Aye! That was the deal!” Telchar shouted. The anger of the dwarves had burgeoned, filling the room and Celeborn began to feel even more nervous than he usually did in the smithies. Something about the anger of the dwarves was particularly unnerving and he placed his hand on his hip, moving his fingers back every so slightly to assure himself that his curved knife was there at his back beneath his robes.

“And yet you seem to be able to produce no evidence of the contract while the king maintains that there never was such an agreement. I trust you can see my predicament,” he said, his voice having grown steely and his anger getting the better of him. It was a hard business indeed to attempt to resolve a matter in which both sides seemed to be against him and where he received no help but all of the blame. “I have done what I am able, with precious little assistance from you.”

“You call yourself a prince?” The dwarf spat. “You are nothing but a messenger boy, running hither and thither doing your King’s bidding, letting him boss you about, making no decisions for yourself!”

“I did not promise you a ‘yes,’ dwarf, I promised you a decision. I have told you what I know and I have told you the king’s decision. You are in his domain and thus have no right to dispute it,” Celeborn said firmly. “If it please you then I will personally order armor from you, for myself and my own soldiers. It is quality stuff and I should be honored to wear it into battle.” At those words some of the tension seemed to dissipate and many of the dwarves stepped back. But Frerin stepped forward and spat upon Celeborn’s boots. The prince looked down at the spittle as it slipped from the leather to the floor and then back up at the dwarves, willing himself to remain calm. This he could not tell Thingol of, it would make the king act rashly.

“If this is the way that the king treats us then none of you Sindar deserve to wear our armor, and you never will.” The dwarf ground out from between clenched teeth. “I think we would feel a good deal better at the moment if there were not an elf in our midst.”

“As you wish,” Celeborn said with a bow, but he was only too happy to go, his heart hammering in his chest. But it was not until he was safely out of the smithy and up the seemingly interminable staircase that he released his sweaty grip from the knife at his back.

*****

Feasts in Doriath tended to be rather rambunctious affairs but the most rambunctious of all those in Thingol’s great hall who had come to join in the eating, dancing, and music, were the young princes and their friends. They had gathered in a group around several low tables, lounging about on cushions and laughing, already well into their drinks. As, after several months in Doriath, Finrod was now counted among their number, he had joined them and thus Artanis had come to sit by them as well.

Some of the newness of Doriath had begun to wear off. Despite the time she spent with Melian, and occasionally Lúthien, she now felt as though she passed so many of her hours alone. That, she had to admit to herself, was at least partly her own fault. For all her bravado about learning Sindarin, Artanis had come to find that she struggled with the language. Her pride stung each time she made a mistake, which happened very frequently, and the well-meaning efforts of the Sindar to correct her mistakes only irritated her and caused her temper to flare. Not wishing to offend, she had taken to closeting herself in her chambers more often than usual.

Finrod, on the other hand, seemed somehow to have instantaneously developed the ability to move through Sindarin society as adeptly as a fish in water and though he still retained traces of his accent, his Sindarin was nearly beyond reproach. Meanwhile, Artanis stewed in ruined pride as she so frequently sat by in self-imposed silence, watching her brother succeed where she had hoped to, while she fell so far behind. 

“What are they saying?” Artanis whispered to Finrod and her brother laughed. It nagged at her pride that she still had to ask him for translations after so many months in Doriath. By now she could manage simple conversations in Doriathrin and the usual sort of Sindarin both, but the Sindar were rambunctious with their wordplay when any sort of joke emerged, altering the intonation or replacing syllables to give the word a different meaning, crafting puns and little rhymes as if it came as naturally to them as breathing. 

“Not really the sort of conversation suited for a lady,” Finrod said with a nervous laugh and Artanis rolled her eyes. 

“As if I care about that,” she murmured with a laugh. Finrod still looked apprehensive but he told her anyway. A childhood together had taught him that his sister would find some way to learn what she wanted even if he refused her.

“The… er…fellow in the red tunic has just been married recently,” he murmured in Quenya. “They’re…ah…casting doubt upon whether his wife was truly…satisfied with his…performance on the night of the wedding. It seems he left his wedding bed and returned to the wedding feast far more quickly than is customary or usual.”

“Oh!” Artanis exclaimed in surprise. To make such jokes in public, in the presence of royalty…for the aforementioned royalty to be in fact participating in such talk would have been unheard of in the palaces of Tirion. It was conversation far more suited to the sparring ring. Her exclamation had drawn the merry glances of all of the young men and a chorus of laughter. They didn’t have to understand Quenya to get the gist of what her brother had said to her or the reason for her surprise. She felt her face flush for a moment, the oncoming embarrassment, the ferocity of injured pride already rankling in her chest, Finrod’s protective hand on her arm.

“Such topics are not common conversation over dinner in Valinor, I presume.” The voice was deep and smooth with that low, lilting tonal quality that seemed unique to the courtly Doriathrin spoken by the Sindarin nobility. But she didn’t need to dissect the cadence of it to know whose it was before she looked up. She knew Celeborn’s voice at once and, as ever, it caused her heart to beat so fast that she could almost hear its frantic pounding in her ears, and those felt as if they were burning. 

Something about it struck at her pride, that Celeborn could with a simple sentence, a mere word even, make her blush clear to the tips of her ears. Maybe it was because she imagined he was used to getting similar reactions from very many girls and she didn’t want to be just one more daft and doe-eyed hanger-on who would follow him about like an insipid puppy. He certainly had enough of those kinds of girls; she’d seen them. The thought irritated her for a moment. If he thought that she was just another…another girl like that, well then she would certainly give him a piece of her mind, even if she couldn’t manage the Sindarin for it.

He lounged languidly back with perfect ease against the cushions he was sitting on like some great cat, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips to display a row of perfect white teeth. When did I start thinking about his lips? She wondered. His eyes, green as summer leaves, twinkled merrily and a lock of his long, straight, silver hair fell to pool like water against the dusky skin of the hollow of his throat revealed by the open collar of his tunic. His chest was broad, his shoulders too, waist trim, legs long and stretched out lazily: a warrior’s body, not lithe and slender like a courtier’s, but with a different sort of grace. Valar save me! She thought, surprised at herself, her mind snapping back to what he had said.

Such topics are not common conversation over dinner in Valinor. The intonation had been somewhat off. It took her a moment to realize that it was all just innuendo disguised, the dinner he had referenced a mere metaphor for… She tried to keep her eyes from widening in shock at the sudden realization. It was a brazen thing to imply and she felt for an instant a reflexive anger, however, that anger was quickly displaced by the second realization that he had not intended it as a slight, but as an invitation. He was giving her a way to join in, a chance to belong with them, here, in Doriath. That meant that over the course of the conversation at his friend’s expense, he had happened to notice that she could not grasp the puns, but now he had made one for her benefit, to draw her into the conversation. A pun… The thought delighted her and her anger dissipated as quickly as a summer storm. It was childish and yet…where was the harm in a little fun? For once, any worry of what anyone else would think, any pride of her own completely disappeared.

Her mind worked as furiously as a sparrow’s wings and alighted upon a response. “Just a matter of different customs,” she said a bit coyly, raising her eyes to meet the prince’s and she saw in them a hint of doubt as if he wondered whether she had missed the joke. She planned to dispel that doubt with her next sentence, choosing her words carefully, being very precise about her pronunciation. 

“It seems,” she said, with a glance and a tilt of her head in the direction of the poor bridegroom, who was laughing merrily despite the jokes at his expense, “that you here in Doriath have a habit of leaving the table unsatisfied. We do not do so in Valinor.” The whooping chorus of laughter and clapping informed her that she had gotten the pronunciation just right, that her metaphor had hit its mark as well. Celeborn was laughing too and she saw something more than merriment in his eyes now, a fierce curiosity burning like a flame. She had intrigued him once more and the thought made her far happier than she had thought it would.

“And are you planning on following the Sindarin custom or the Noldorin one then?” Celeborn retorted, his lips now curled in a broad grin, silent laughter still shaking his broad chest even as he spoke, eyes twinkling as he leaned forward towards her. Time for a master stroke. She could feel the excitement bubbling in her chest as she planned the words just right.

She shrugged, “were I to dine with you, Your Highness, it seems I would have no choice but to follow the Sindarin tradition.” She was certain it would not have been quite so funny if they weren’t all drunk, but she was pleased nonetheless. The men erupted in laughter so loud that it filled the hall, some of them falling flat on their backs, lying amidst the cushions, shaking with mirth, tears leaking from their eyes. And, despite the fact that the joke had been at Celeborn’s expense, he was laughing harder than all of them, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, laughing until it seemed that his stomach hurt. She felt a wild sort of joy not only at the fact that she had so successfully played their little game, but that she had made him laugh. It wasn’t until then that she became conscious of how tight Finrod’s grip on her arm was, but she gently brushed off his hand. There had been no harm in it. What reason did he have to be upset?

The feast continued on to the early hours of the morning and, finding she had a desire to stretch her legs, Artanis stood, wandering aimlessly through the living forest of Thingol’s hall and the revelers spread here and there, smiling at the music, and singing, and festivities. There were servants milling about carrying trays of wine and she reached out to take a glass when suddenly she felt the warmth of a hand on the small of her back, and saw a large hand reach out to deftly scoop two glasses from the tray, depositing one in her hands and keeping the other.

She felt her breath catch in her throat as the hand on her back steered her to walk beside its owner. She knew who he was before he spoke; no one else handled himself with such natural assuredness. “Walk with me.” It was part question and part presumption that she would. Wordlessly she acceded, feeling a lingering sense of disappointment as his hand left her back, the warmth dissipating from her skin. She took a sip of the wine thinking that her chest felt unusually tight and of course she knew why. The feelings she was having for Celeborn were not natural – she paused in her thoughts, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Those were words Fëanor would have used. Of course what she felt for Celeborn was natural. Why shouldn’t it be natural? 

Because he has never seen the light. The thought lingered in her mind and she tried to push it away. There’s nothing wrong with it, nothing wrong with him, she told herself. If the opinions of Valinor were correct then by all means she ought to have been disgusted by his touch of a moment earlier, and yet she hadn’t been, which must mean that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing wrong with him. But perhaps there is something wrong with me, the thought rose unbidden. Perhaps I ought not relish his touch.

“I hope I haven’t offended your brother,” Celeborn said quietly, pulling her from her thoughts, and she turned to look at him, his gaze catching hers as she felt her heart begin its frantic pounding.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head as if it were all nothing. “Finrod is the oldest, you know, sense of duty and all, feels he has to uphold the house of Finarfin. And then I’m the youngest, and his only sister besides so he feels as if he must protect me I suppose.” She still felt flustered and so she groped for words like a blind man, unable to grasp hold of the ones she felt would best describe her predicament, with the result being that she felt the explanation she had given was wholly inaccurate.

“Protect you?” Celeborn said, testing the words on his tongue as if they sounded strange to him and he could not quite understand them. “Whatever for?” And Artanis contemplated how she would explain such a thing to a foreign prince, well…not really foreign. They were in his kingdom, his palace after all. She was the foreign one. In fact, now that she thought about explaining it, it did seem rather odd after all.

“Well, because I’m his sister,” she supplied. A poor explanation but she could not think of a better one.

“I have a brother,” Celeborn said after some thought, “and I feel a need to protect him, but that’s only because he’s so daft that he doesn’t know the blade of a sword from the hilt.” He laughed. It was clearly polite self-deprecation and she knew he didn’t really think his brother daft. “But you strike me as a sensible person, the sort who doesn’t need protecting.” He paused for a moment as if he wondered whether he should continue or not. “At least that is what I thought when I first saw you,” he said. “There was danger all about you and yet you weren’t scared at all and so I thought that perhaps everything else ought to be frightened of you.” He laughed.

“Oh,” Artanis said with quiet satisfaction, her heart beginning its strange pitter-pat again, pleased beyond measure to know that he had thought about her, that in private his mind had turned to her on occasion. “Well it is because I am a woman, you know.” She briefly pondered telling him her mother name, Nerwen, man maiden, but decided against it, finding herself wanting Celeborn to think her anything but mannish. “And men ought to protect women, safeguard their virtue, defend their honor…that sort of thing,” she explained, having taken Celeborn’s silence for a lack of understanding.

It seemed she was right - that he hadn’t understood - because a frown creased his forehead for a moment and he ran his tongue over his teeth. “Are…are the women of your kingdom not capable of defending themselves or of deciding for themselves what is virtuous and honorable, as men are?” He asked seeming confused. “Forgive me,” he said then in a rush of words, “I don’t mean to sound ignorant or rude. It is only that we have no such custom here.”

“It’s quite alright,” Artanis said. “I’ve never thought about it before but now that you mention it, it does seem a strange thing doesn’t it?” She laughed softly.

“It does indeed,” Celeborn said with a smile. “I find I cannot really understand it, but I assure you that is not a sign of any deficiency in your explanation.” His smile was nice, Artanis thought, feeling a warm glow in her heart, not the cocky, playful grin of earlier, but a different side of him, kind, intelligent, considerate. He was far more fascinating than any of the jewels that had been in Fëanor’s collection, for their beauty had been bound by their structure but each time she spoke to Celeborn she seemed to discover some new facet of his personality. “I intend you no harm,” he said, his eyes meeting hers again, a pleasant smile on his face.

“What?” Artanis stammered, feeling her face flush. She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she had lost track of the conversation.

“You said your brother felt he needed to protect you,” Celeborn replied. “He need not protect you from me, nor need you guard yourself from me. I mean you no harm.”

“Oh yes, yes, I know,” she stumbled her way through the words, suddenly seeming to have forgotten even the most basic Sindarin. Celeborn either did not notice or was too polite to let it show that he had. For all the rumors she had heard about his temper, there was a certain kindness to him, rough around the edges perhaps, but his intentions were not ill.

“How are you finding Menegroth?” He asked her and, despite how nervous she felt, there was something about him that made her feel comfortable, as if she could tell him the truth and not worry over judgment.

“It is wonderous as ever,” she said with a laugh, recalling how foolish he must think her for getting lost that first night, “and yet I must admit that I grow frustrated at times. Things are so different.”

“Ah yes,” Celeborn said with a small laugh and a grin. There was something about his smiles that was so genuine, she noted with delight. “Well I imagine I would feel much the same were I in Aman. It really was rather brave of you to come all this way to a place that must feel so foreign to you.” He paused, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Actually, I was wondering if you might be interested…” he paused again, seeming to be pondering something, on the verge of asking her some question, and her mind ran hither and thither wondering what it might be, if perhaps he would ask her to accompany him to some ball, or to a hunt, but then she felt a gentle hand on her arm and heard the sound of Finrod’s quiet voice greeting Celeborn.

The Sindarin prince bowed in reply and made the appropriate response and then Finrod turned to her, saying, “it is late, Artanis, and we should be going.” Then he was steering her from the hall and she was going with him. She didn’t have the heart to look back at Celeborn because she knew he was most likely watching them leave and if her eyes met his she would spend the rest of the day regretting the conversation they had not been able to continue.

“Finrod,” she said at last once they had returned to their rooms, a bit irritated with her brother now, “what need was there for that? I was enjoying my conversation and could have returned in my own time without you.”

“Believe me, Artanis,” Finrod said, glancing up from the ledgers he was perusing, the ledgers he used to plan Nargothrond. It seemed that was all that was on his mind nowadays. “I’m a man and I know what men think about when they look at women. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s got a fair bit more on his mind than conversation.”

“He was very courteous to me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, more than a bit irritated now. 

“He’s my friend,” Finrod said sounding exasperated, not bothering to look up from his ledger now, “and I know how he is. He’s had his romantic liaisons…”

“What does that matter?” Artanis interrupted. “I have yet to meet a prince who hasn’t. Seems as if it comes with the crown. It does not mean he is not honorable.” But the thought did make her cross. She didn’t want to ponder the idea that after they had left the banquet Celeborn may have simply moved on to another girl, and that this other nameless, faceless, hypothetical girl might be laughing at his jokes or listening to the way that his Doriathrin accent rose and fell in that near-enchanting cadence as he spoke, or that his hand, which had only recently been on the small of her back, might now be on someone else’s.

What she said had caused Finrod to bite his lip and take a deep breath. He couldn’t claim he hadn’t done the same. He knew she had observed his, and Angrod, and Aegnor, and all of her Feanorion cousins’ numerous and assorted romantic liaisons. It would have been a good idea if she had stopped there while he was effectively in checkmate, but Artanis had never been particularly adept at judging when the appropriate time to stop speaking.

“He does not mean me ill, Finrod. He told me so himself this evening. And whatever he might be, I do believe he is a man of his word,” she said, her voice firm. As much as she loved her brother, and as much as she knew he was trying to act in her best interest, his constant mothering was beginning to try her nerves. “And besides, have you ever thought that perhaps when I look at him I have a far bit more on my mind than conversation? And why shouldn’t I? I am already far past the age when our people normally marry. Why should it be wrong for me to…to have such desires?” A few months ago she would never have dared to voice such a thought and even now she felt the blush of shame rising on her cheeks at her confession, but she was determined not to back down, not now, not when she had been so close.

Finrod turned quickly, his ledger suddenly forgotten, and looked at his sister as though she had completely lost her mind. “You hardly know him,” he said. 

“I’d like to know him,” she retorted just as quickly. “You yourself were teasing me about Sindarin suitors on our journey…”

“For Varda’s sake!” Finrod exclaimed, his eyes gone wide. “I never thought you would take it seriously Artanis! The whole idea is…is impractical!” But Artanis had seen the shadow of something else in his eyes.

“By Yavanna’s grace,” she said, “I know we all thought in the beginning that the Sindar would be savages…but don’t tell me you haven’t changed your mind after these months here, after meeting them, after...” she fumbled for words. Surely, surely he couldn’t, not Finrod who had marveled over the genius of Sindarin architecture to Thingol, who had expounded at length upon the miracle that was Sindarin plumbing, who had studied Sindarin music with rapt attention. “Finrod, how can you call Celeborn your friend, how can you accept Thingol’s money if you think these people are lesser… Our whole family is built upon such mixed marriages! Mother is a Teler and father a Noldo, grandmother a Vanya and Grandfather a Noldo…”

“Of course I don’t think them lesser!” Finrod retorted, but Artanis sensed that she had struck a little too near the truth for his comfort. In the next instant his anger left him and his shoulders slumped, a defeated look evident in every feature of his face. “Artanis…” he raised a hand and then let it fall in a gesture unfinished. “I just…I want you to think of what you are…what you might be getting yourself into. I don’t want to see you unhappy, but where could this flirtation between you and Celeborn go? Think of the danger you could be putting us in! He’s the crown prince of Doriath and whatever his feelings for you might be, he will forever put his kingdom first. The quarrels between his people and ours…they’ll only divide the two of you. And suppose he should learn of,” Finrod paused, unable to say the word, “of what we did. What then? Could you bear to see his affection for you turn to hatred? He can be a cold man Artanis, colder than you know. He would hunt you down himself to avenge what we did. No world would be wide enough for you to escape his wrath.”

“This is your fault!” Artanis seethed, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I never wanted to keep this secret. You forced it on me!”

“What does it matter?” Finrod cried. “Why can you not see that I only have your best interest at heart? I don’t want to see you hurt, Artanis! You’ve already had to endure so much and I see the way it pains you. I don’t want to see your heart shattered the way that mine was when Amarië turned away from me!” His last words, nearly shouted, had torn a strangled sob loose from his throat, and he dropped his head to his hands while Artanis fell quiet, shocked into silence. Finrod had never spoken before of what had happened with his ruptured engagement. 

“Finrod, I…” she tried quietly, hoping to reassure him that she had not meant to cause him such distress, but her brother held out a trembling hand, bidding her remain silent for a moment longer. At last he raised his head from his hands, taking a deep breath, but Artanis could see that his eyes were rimmed in red and the beginnings of tears.

“Artanis…” he began softly, “we’ll be leaving for Nargothrond in a few short months and what then? It is impossible to keep a courtship going over such a long distance, with you in Nargothrond and he in Doriath, hundreds of miles dividing you. I just don’t want to see your hopes dashed or your heart broken.”

“Maybe…” Artanis uncrossed and then re-crossed her arms, shifting nervously. The thought had only just now occurred to her but, now that she had thought it consciously, she discovered she had actually been pondering the notion for a very long time, ever since their arrival in Doriath. “Maybe…” she began again, taking a deep breath, “maybe I don’t want to go to Nargothrond. Maybe I want to stay here in Doriath.”

The hardest part of saying it was watching the way it crushed her brother while he was already laid so low, the happiness that fled from his blue eyes and the hope that seemed to dissipate from him like mist at dawn. And yet she would not willingly do Finrod the injustice of lying to him. 

“But,” Finrod said, his mind rebelling at the thought, “but Artanis we were in this together, you and I, this shared dream…to build a kingdom of our own.” He seemed to want to say more but he couldn’t think of the words.

“Your kingdom,” she said quietly, conscious of the hurt it would bring him, “not mine.”

“More yours than Doriath will ever be, even if Celeborn were to take you to wife,” Finrod said, swallowing hard. “What of your dreams?”

“I know,” Artanis replied, “but I’m beginning to think that maybe I didn’t really know what I wanted back then.” Back then when their mother had stood in the door of their house, hurling tears and curses at her children marching to rebellion against the Valar. Back then when Amarië, Finrod’s betrothed, had begged him weeping not to leave her. Back then when they had been caught unwittingly and unwillingly in the quagmire of death at Alqualonde as her mother’s family was slain around her. Back then when their father had turned back, waiting, hoping they too would return to Valinor…when they had finally lost sight of him sitting on his horse, still waiting. Had he ridden back alone through the streets of a now empty city, walked through the halls of a house now devoid of children, broken the news of her family’s murder at his brother’s hands to his Telerin wife? She knew Finrod’s feelings better than he thought she did. She knew loneliness, exile, abandonment, and yet here…in Doriath it seemed that at last she had the opportunity to banish the ghosts of her past.

She knew well enough when Finrod wanted to be alone and she could see that now was such a time so, squeezing his hands once more and pressing a gentle kiss to his brow, she retreated into her own rooms. She was almost certain that her brother had wept after their conversation and the thought plagued her as she lay in bed, trying fruitlessly to fall asleep. Certainly she had not wanted to hurt her brother so horribly and yet the longer she stayed in Doriath the more certain she was that her future lay here, in this kingdom, with the Sindar. 

It was not all because of Celeborn. But she had to admit to herself that a great part of it, an irresponsible part, irresponsible because she knew him so little, was because of him. Something about him made her feel different than she had ever felt before, perhaps because he treated her differently than anyone else ever had. Even tonight…she rolled onto her back so that she could gaze up at the stars that reminded her so much of him…he had not scolded her for her pride nor attempted to stifle it as so many had in such a patronizing fashion. Instead, he had redirected it, helped her turn it into something else, into humor, into conversation, and she hadn’t minded so much that her Sindarin was poor, not when she was talking to him. It had simply come so naturally, all of it. She could feel a smile spreading across her face though there was no one to see it, and when she closed her eyes he was all that she could see.


	6. A Heart Disquieted

  
**A Heart Disquieted**

In Cavern's Shade: 6th Chapter

*****

"To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people,

that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he

by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones,

why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils,

why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid,

the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter.."

– Gabriel Garcia Marquez

*****

The gardens of Menegroth were a mystery to Artanis for although she knew that they were not outside, she could not quite discern how it was that plants managed to grow indoors. Nevertheless, when one was in Menegroth, and especially in the gardens, it was almost impossible to believe that you were not outside underneath the starry sky amidst the verdant forests of Doriath.

Artanis looked up at the ceiling so high above and saw that the late afternoon had turned to dusk, painting the sky in crepuscular colors while twinkling stars emerged. The Sindar would be waking soon. The first few months in Menegroth had been more exhausting than she had anticipated. Of course, it was all very exciting. She spent her nights moving from party to party, the guest of honor at each of them, or with Melian, learning to weave Sindarin fabrics and make lembas, or with Thingol himself, speaking of her days in Aman, for he never tired of hearing of the two trees, even though they were no more. It was, however, perhaps too exciting and the exhaustion from the newness of it all threatened to overwhelm her, constantly.

Some of the luster of the weeks and months following her arrival had worn off and all of her new responsibilities had only served to reinforce that, no matter how much she had learned already since coming to middle earth, here in Menegroth she was still nearly as useless as a child. The initial fantasy of an Artanis who could move seamlessly between the worlds of Noldor and Sindar had been replaced with the incompetent reality of herself. Here her fabrics all came out the wrong color, her lembas was misshapen and damp, and her Sindarin was clumsy and barely passable. Artanis was not used to failing.

Furthermore, the more forward manners and physicality of the Sindar had been a shock to her and had only served to reinforce the concept that she was incapable of anything but the most basic of interactions. Sensing how overwhelmed she had become, and, as ever, anticipating her needs almost before she knew them herself, Melian had granted her a small plot of land in a secluded area of the gardens, which she had encouraged her to cultivate. It was a great relief to her, more than she had anticipated, for it provided her with a place where she did not have to be either Noldo or Sinda, but could be herself, as well as a means by which she could do something for herself and by herself, something she could do well. Yet there had been a certain twinkle in the queen's eye when she had spoken to Artanis of this place and the Noldo yet feared that she would unearth something unusual here, for Melian always seemed to have reasons that were not immediately apparent.

She dug her hands into the soil, still warm from the sun, and closed her eyes, smiling at the earth's comforting touch. Gradually she felt her anger and frustration drain away and she released a long sigh. Finrod liked to laugh at her for growing potatoes, such an ignoble plant, yet she had not forgotten that it had been potatoes that had sustained them over the first miserable winter in middle earth and had the green elves not taught her to cultivate them they might all have starved. They might only be potatoes but at last she knew what to do with them.

Her reverie and temporary foray into self-pity was interrupted rudely by the splattering of cold water on her upturned forehead. Artanis's eyes shot open in surprise and no small amount of ire as she stared upwards with mouth agape and reached up to wipe the water from her face with her sleeve. Water was now dripping slowly from the leaves of the tall oak above her. Eyes narrowed in scrutiny, she eyed the tree suspiciously. This one, she noted, was not part of the cave, but rather a very real tree, though it reached nearly as high as the stone ones, so that she could hardly see its top. It must have been condensation, dew that had formed upon the leaves and spilled at last under the accumulated weight. She sighed and could not help feeling, though of course she knew it was a ridiculous thought, that now it seemed even the trees themselves were judging her, deeming her inadequate.

She returned to the task at hand, moving slightly out of the way so that the water droplets would not fall on her, and knelt in the dirt, pulling the canvas sack filled with sprouting potato tubers to her. Reaching into it she pulled one out, examining the sprouting growths carefully and ensuring that the potato was free from disease before placing it in the ground, then scooted down a bit more and reached into the bag again to withdraw yet another potato, which was precisely when a veritable torrent of water poured down upon her, leaving the Noldorin maid spluttering and wiping water from her eyes. Growing extremely perturbed she sprang to her feet, once more examining the tall oak. Again, the stream of water had diminished to a weak dripping, falling down from the broad leaves above. But now Artanis suspected foul play. This had been no accident; someone was doubtlessly trying to raise her ire.

"Is anyone there?" She called in Sindarin. "I command you show yourself!" She could not fathom who would dare to do such a thing, save her brother, yet play seemed a more likely motivator than malice. "Finrod?" She called, unable to imagine that it could be anyone else who would do something so ignoble, who would harass her about potatoes in such a way. "Finrod, I know you're there!" She circled back around to her potato patch, keeping her eyes pinned on the traitorous tree. "If you wish to tease me you might as well come down and do it to my face!"

Had they been in Aman she could absolutely have lined up a dozen or more overeager suitors to shield her from the watery annoyance as if she were some precious flower or scramble up into the tree to drag whomever it was out to answer to her harsh justice. It had worked quite to her advantage in their younger days, whenever they had had to choose teams. Her dear brother was no doubt taking advantage of their reversed circumstances and her dearth of willing tributes to get away with his pranks. "Fine then brother dear," she said, fists planted on her hips, but she found now that the anger and frustration that had haunted her these past weeks seemed to have dissipated, if only momentarily, and instead her heart grew warm with joy as she recalled the games that she used to play with her brothers as children. "Have it your way then," she said with a smile. "But I'm warning you, just because I no longer have an army of besotted fools to send after you does not mean that I won't take you to task myself if you do it again."

She squatted down once more, returning her attention to her planting, but her muscles were tensed, ready for action, her eyes scanned her peripheral vision, her ears were alert, her hand maintained a firm grip on the potato she held. She hefted it in her hand as she pretended to examine it while waiting for her brother to make his next move. Yes, this potato would do nicely. There it was: a finger reaching out, tipping a leaf full of dew. But the stream of water that rained down missed Artanis entirely for she had been watchful and dodged out of the way. Leaping into the air with her arm drawn back, she launched the potato in a graceful yet deadly curve towards where she had seen the movement, grinning in anticipation of hearing her brother's shriek. But her smile went slack as the potato disappeared into the canopy of the oak and no shriek of any sort was emitted at all. Wary, Artanis waited, her athletic body tensed for action.

Suddenly the potato came hurtling back out of the tree, aimed directly for her head, and she was forced to throw herself to the ground to avoid it. Yet her dive was not for naught and she took the opportunity to swipe three potatoes from the canvas sack. Finrod's aim had improved and if she had not been engaged in the battle before then she certainly was now. Clutching her potatoes she eyed the tree, biting her lip in concentration. She tossed a potato up then caught it in her hand before launching it with lightening speed at the tree, following it in quick succession with the other two. They came back at her almost as quickly and she could not help but laugh. Two of them she dodged while the third she caught bare-handed, returning it immediately with considerable force.

"You're out of your league brother!" She called to him in Quenya as the potato came hurtling back at her. She leapt high to catch it, snatching it from the air with ease. She circled the tree, forced to leap out of the way as another cascade of water came pouring down in her direction. But she had seen his shadow move so high up and she took aim, hurling the potato with all her might, glorious missile of her justice, and heard it connect with a great smack, her heart singing with glee as a yelp of pain met her ears. She let out a whoop of victory but it was short lived for her hidden aggressor must have been in a precarious perch as it seemed that he had lost his footing and was tumbling now through the tree, connecting soundly with the branches on the way down. Artanis grimaced, Finrod would certainly be irate with her tomorrow when his bruises were sure to blossom.

But the figure who tumbled forth from the tree's leafy embrace to fall with an unfortunate thud to the earth below was not Finrod at all, no, it was Celeborn, the High Prince of Beleriand. Artanis felt her heart freeze in horror as a gasp of surprise died upon her lips. Of all of her egregious cultural mishaps…this was undoubtedly the worst. What had she done? Thingol's prince! The Prince of all Doriath! The prince whom she had found so alluringly attractive, who was kind and funny and…oh no! She blushed half in shame and half in embarrassment that, at a time like this, her mind had run to such ridiculous notions as romance.

"Your highness!" She cried, running to where he lay, one potato still clutched in her sweaty hand. Celeborn was not moving, his eyes closed and his mouth gone slack. Artanis threw herself to the ground beside him, gingerly reaching out to smooth his silver hair back from his forehead, her fingers going to his throat, searching for a pulse. Dear Valar! She had killed the Prince of Doriath and Thingol would have their heads for it, expel them from Beleriand forever, banish her people! And how could she ever live with what she had done, having killed this man who alone of all the people here had passed no judgment upon her, this prince who was so beloved by his people? Hot tears rose to her eyes as her skin turned clammy with sweat and her hands trembled. But, yes, there – could that be a pulse? And just as she started to feel the beginnings of relief, Celeborn opened his eyes lazily, looking up at her with a catlike grin as he plucked the potato from her hand and bit into it with a loud crunch, chewing slowly and deliberately.

"Scared?" He muttered with a laugh.

Artanis looked down at his leaf green eyes, her mouth agape, and did the only thing that she could think to do: she slapped him across his beautiful smug face. "How dare you?" She demanded to know, eyes flashing, all of her previous romantic notions of him, and any regard for propriety or royal office abandoned in the wake of her anger. "You allowed me to suppose that I had killed you! Already I was troubling over how I should break the terrible news to the King! I have had enough of you Sindar and your games and your jokes. They aren't funny to me, they're cruel!" But Celeborn merely laughed, long and hard.

"I am not quite dead yet," he said, still grinning, his mouth full of raw potato, a red mark blooming on the side of his face where her open palm had made contact, "and I hope I shall never be. Though I know not whether that news saddens or gladdens you." He took another bite of the potato.

"Celeborn - ," she started to scold him.

"Galadhonian," he said, supplying her with the patronymic that she had only just realized she did not know, ready to accept his scolding.

"Celeborn Galadhonian, of course I am happy that you are alive," Artanis said with half the mind to slap him again. "Though I find that I cannot help but think it would be just recompense if you were even a little bit hurt."

"Consider your wish granted oh exalted daughter of Earwen, for unless I am greatly mistaken," he said, brandishing the half-eaten potato at her with his left hand, "my other arm is broken."

"Oh no!" She whispered, once more forgetting her anger as remorse took its place. Her eyes turned downwards to his left arm, which was indeed lying at a strange and unnatural angle. "Oh no…" she repeated, reaching out gingerly to touch it. Celeborn hissed as her hands made contact with his arm and she withdrew them quickly, as if she had touched hot coals. "Forgive me," she said, "I am not a healer and I do not know what to do."

"Alas, if I were a more romantic man I might say that the sight of your face worrying over me is medicine enough," Celeborn said, "yet it seems that I am not, and it is not, and that I shall need to see a healer indeed."

"Of course," Artanis said, offering him her hands as he stuffed the last bit of the potato in his mouth. He pulled himself up one-handed and together they began the trek to the healers' quarters. "I am very sorry," Artanis said. "Does it not pain you greatly?"

"It hurts," Celeborn shrugged, "but I have endured much worse. I imagine it shall be more of a bother than anything."

"You must be ever so angry at me," she said, fiddling with her hands nervously.

"Not at all," Celeborn said with a smile that put her at ease. "We were both having a good deal of fun were we not? Besides, it was I who provoked you and I who have gotten my due comeuppance. Had I been more judicious in my footing and less hasty to agitate you I might not have fallen at all."

"Regardless, I am very sorry," she insisted.

"You have a very good arm," he said. "I must admit that I was surprised."

"Clearly," she laughed, raising a brow at the broken arm that he cradled now in his good one.

"You throw better than you fight," he said with a grin.

"Ha!" She scoffed. "Perhaps you have gotten your just deserts! There are a number of things that I can do very well only you don't know about them." Yet her heart pounded within her chest.

"As I have noticed," he said. "You seem to be very adept at growing plants. You learned that from the green elves, did you not?"

"How do you know that?" She asked, a bit surprised, for in truth they hardly knew one another.

"You dig trenches instead of holes," he said. "The Sindar dig holes."

"Maybe," she said with a sly smile. "Or maybe I learned in Valinor."

"You play false with me my lady. There are no potatoes in Valinor, or so your brother tells me."

"You've caught me then," she said. "It was the Laiquendi who taught me after all."

"That's very interesting," Celeborn shrugged.

"And why is that?" She asked, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"Some of your people seem very reticent to adopt any foreign ways," he said with a shrug, hissing at the pain it caused him.

"We are not all the same you know," she said a bit sharply, her ire turning upon him as the various feelings she had experienced in the past few weeks flooded back upon her. "I don't think you're all the same so why should you think that of me?"

"Peace, peace lady, that is not what I meant," he replied with a chuckle and the silence stretched between them.

"Why were you in that tree watching me plant potatoes in the first place?" Artanis asked him, somewhat accusingly, though mostly she inquired out of curiosity.

"I did not mean to happen across you. I was already in the tree when you arrived," he told her. "I have been raising those trees since they were saplings and I go there often to tend to them and converse with them. I do love Menegroth and, indeed, I find the stone trees to be very lovely yet my heart longs for real trees not only in the out of doors, but also here within the palace."

And Artanis contemplated his words and what remained unsaid, for this gave no explanation as to why he had decided to dump water on her head, such a childish thing to do. Questions ran hither and thither within her mind. Was she simply misinterpreting his actions? Was it a matter of the cultural difference? But, unless she was very sorely mistaken, unless she had mistaken everything that had passed between them since his arrival, he was interested in her, romantically interested. Yet he has such a very strange way of showing it, she thought with some measure of indignance. Or was this a typical way to show affection amongst the Sindar: pouring water on your beloved's head and lobbing missiles at them? Any proper prince of Aman would have offered her pearls and diamonds, gold and silver, bouquets of the finest flowers from Lorien or the most snowy white swans from Alqualonde's ornamental ponds.

But, she reminded herself, all of the pearls of Alqualonde and all of the diamonds of Tirion did not make you happy, nor did any of those 'proper' princes. Yet Celeborn is a prince, properly a prince, she reminded herself, only he does not act like one, or at least not one from Aman. It was a silly thought, she now realized, for why should he, how could he act like a prince from Aman, seeing as he was not? Why ought she have to have expected such a thing of him? I am only upset now because it makes me feel foolish, this confusion, this wondering what his interest in me is. And why? The answer was plain though she knew not what to make of it: because he expects me to move towards him just as he moves towards me, a curious predicament for one who had always found herself being courted, who had always sat and waited in her ivory tower for this and that to be brought and presented before her but never once risen from her throne to go to them.

Her mind wandered back to that time when they had sparred and suddenly she felt as though Celeborn had created some puzzle for her and he was now expecting her to fit the pieces together. This time, I want you to dance with me, he had said, and at the time she had thought that he wanted her to dance but now she wondered if not the with me had been the more important operative. It is a simple thing, she thought, for already she had taken a far greater step: she had left Valinor and come to this land, made her home in a place entirely foreign to her. By that reason, it should not have been any more difficult for her to take this one small step towards him, and yet she was afraid, remembering Nerdanel, Anaire, her mother…left behind. And he would leave you too, if only he knew what crime you had committed, if only he knew that your hands were red with the blood of your own kin, that you were cursed by Mandos himself. A cage – she had always thought of Aman as her cage…yet, a world in which the those you loved spurned you entirely, as Nerdanel had been spurned…as Anaire had been spurned…as her mother…was there any prison more terrible than that? A fell chill gripped her heart as of a hoarfrost.

They had arrived at the healer's quarters and she scurried to open the door so that Celeborn would not have to move his injured arm and a gaggle of nurses descended upon them immediately, speaking to the prince in anxious tones and fussing over his arm. Artanis could not understand them very well for medical language was difficult and very specialized besides, so she did not speak until she and Celeborn were ushered to several chairs while a nurse drew a curtain about them. They sat opposite each other in the private enclosed space and a sudden awkwardness seemed to descend upon them that had not been there before, as if the room were too small to hold everything that they wished to say to each other but hadn't.

"The healer will be with us shortly," Celeborn said, relaying the nurse's message to her and she nodded in acknowledgement while they sat in silence for now Artanis put aside her earlier discontent and was growing increasingly worried instead. She had done Celeborn and Doriath a great disservice, for he could not now draw his bow nor wield his axe. And, selfishly, she worried that this unfortunate event would make him dislike her, or think her foolish and childish. But do you even want him, or do you merely wish to make him want you? Her mind reminded her. Are you too afraid to take that step?

"Your Sindarin has improved rapidly," he said, breaking the silence, glancing up at her with a grin as though he had noticed her disquiet and wished to set her at ease. "It was not so very long ago that you could not hold a conversation."

"My thanks," she replied courteously, "it has not improved as much as I would have liked." He laughed softly.

"Are you always so impatient?" He asked, grinning at her, fixing her with a look of curiosity and the words brought a smile to her face. Something about his mannerisms, his movements, intrigued her: that confidence, the self-assuredness; his movements were deft, effortless, graceful yet at the same time he put on no regal airs. If it had not been for the color of his hair, she might have thought him just a commoner. He would be at home in any alehouse. She almost managed to relax.

"My mother would say so," she said, "and she would attribute it to my father's Noldorin blood. The Teleri take their time with things, she says. My haste used to agitate her ever so greatly…your highness," she added to the end of her sentence, remembering that she was talking to a prince, and a high prince at that. It would not do to be so horribly informal with him, this was not the sparring ring after all, but the palace, and she had already vastly overstepped her bounds.

"You do not need to refer to me with such formality," he said, waving his hand, "for you yourself are a princess of Aman are you not?" He had meant it rhetorically but Artanis answered anyway.

"Merely a minor princess," she replied. This was a lie. She was no minor princess, not since Finwe's death. With Fingolfin in exile and Feanor dead the crown must have fallen to her father. He would be high king now, and she a high princess of Aman. But they were sworn not to speak of those matters…

"I thought there were no crown princesses amongst the Noldor," Celeborn said, "or so I heard from Finrod. Your brother says that females cannot inherit. Does that not mean that all princesses are minor princesses?"

"Yes, that is right," she said. "I merely meant that I am not a high princess. But, even if I were the highest princess of Valinor," which she was, though in secret, "I would still not be your equal, you being a crown prince, as I could never be a crown princess, such as Luthien is. Truly, I do wish for a realm of my own, even as my brother has, but I have no right to rule."

Celeborn shrugged. "My pardon if I offend, but it seems a silly law to me. Women are no less capable of governance. A king is only a king so long as he can keep his crown. I see no reason why you shouldn't be a queen so long as you can retain the crown."

"It is different there, your highness," she said. "It is all about bloodlines and politics, not tests of combat and being strong enough to maintain one's rule."

"Just Celeborn, please," he said, fixing her with his gaze. "Perhaps we have not passed much time in conversation, yet I often find that actions are a truer measure of a person than words. To this point you have done nothing other than prove that you are my equal in every way. How could I see you as anything other than that?" He was bold, very bold, and she shied away.

"Perhaps we should not speak of such things," Artanis said, dropping her gaze, for already she had strayed near the issue of Finwe's death and too much talk of Aman made her nervous. Then there was the fact that Celeborn was aptly called 'the wise' and though he had not Melian's gift of peering into minds, he seemed to be able to read her heart uncannily well without it. Yet his eyes rested heavily upon her. It was perhaps his most striking feature, the ability to make himself felt long after he had left a room, and she knew that she would be feeling the weight of where his gaze had lain for many days afterwards, and the questions that his gaze had conjured in her mind.

He seemed to relinquish his line of questioning and they sat in silence as Artanis chewed her lip while directing a covert glance at his arm to attempt to ascertain the extent of the injury. He wore no tunic but the sleeves of his cotton undershirt were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms well bronzed by the sun. There was no bone showing and no blood; perhaps it was not so bad. Her gaze strayed and she could not help but notice that his shoulders were very broad and that the front of his shirt was open ever so slightly, his silver hair a magnificent contrast to the tanned skin of his chest. She had never had such bold thoughts before about a male and, growing embarrassed at herself, she turned her eyes back to her clasped hands so as not to be caught looking.

"Why did you leave?" Celeborn asked her suddenly, his eyes catching hers. "For it seems to me that you lived in paradise there in the blessed realm and I have labored away here my whole life to cleanse this land of Melkor's filth to no avail."

"I…" Artanis stammered, caught off her guard, having believed that he would not press. How was it that one man could make her feel so extraordinarily comfortable in one instant and so intolerably uncomfortable in the next? Melian had once told her that the prince had a unique trait of perceiving clearly and laying bare that which others would prefer to keep hidden, now she saw that it was true. With no small amount of unease she thought of how Thingol's people had tracked their people for years as they had wandered the forests, even unseen, secreting information back to their master. How much does he know? She wondered.

She raised her head to look at him as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hair hanging in her face, thinking how she would answer. The prince's eyes seemed to pierce her own as he waited for her answer while the silence was drawn out between them until it seemed about to snap, like the string of a bow. It was then that he did the unthinkable: he reached out with his good hand, breaching the distance between them with a certain disregard, grinning at her as if he was daring her almost, and, to her great disbelief, he caught a lock of her hair in his hands and wrapped it about his fingers, playing with it as though it were nothing more than a toy or a pretty trinket rather than her most prized posession.

"Why did you leave Galadriel?"

She was entirely taken aback, indeed, she knew not what to do. It was one thing to touch her hair, an act reserved for lovers alone, something she had not even allowed Feanor, her kinsman and the greatest of the Noldor, it was another thing entirely to call her by an epessë, especially one he had so clearly contrived for her himself. It was absolutely unbelievable that he would do both of these forbidden things at one time. A strange mixture of emotions ran through her. Had this happened in the great square of Tirion all those gathered there would have drawn their swords to defend her honor. And there was the nastier, darker thought that rose unbidden from within her breast: that despite her earlier words regarding equality, and rank, and nobility, it was a shocking thing indeed that a…a Moriquendi, one born in darkness, untouched by the light of the trees, would dare to lay his hand upon a Calaquendi maiden. Nay! With an almighty strength of mind she pushed those thoughts back down into the grave where they belonged, buried with Feanor, or what had remained of his smoldering ruin.

In its place burgeoned a strange…gratefulness; gratefulness that Celeborn had not placed her on some pedestal, gratefulness that he was not frightened of her, that he was not intimidated by her, that he found her…touchable. And from this gratefulness grew the seed of something else, something burning, racing through her body. He was all pale and silver, the colors of water, cold steel and unknowable, but, Valar, did he ignite some conflagration in her blood, like white fire. Yet she shrank back from that fire, afraid, for she feared it would immolate her rather than fuel her, and so her pride won out, though even that faltered in its security.

"If…if…" she stammered, blushing red from embarrassment, "if we were in Valinor they would cut off your hand and cut out your tongue for what you have just done…" But there was neither strength nor resolution behind her words and thus she betrayed their falseness and her fear.

But Celeborn only grinned and tightened his hold on her hair. "But we are not in Valinor," he said, "and you are not stopping me. You are not a woman who stays her hand, earlier, even, you slapped me, yet you do not do so now. Why…Galadriel? What do you want?"

It was true, she could have stopped him, could have put him off, and yet she had not, and, as he had said, she was not a woman who staid her hand when it wanted for action. Even now she sat, watching him as he idly played with the golden tress he held in his hand, tugging on it gently. He fixed his gaze upon her, so intense that she felt almost naked. He knew, and she knew, the reason that even now her hair remained in his grasp; despite an upbringing in Valinor that had taught her that this was repugnant, despite her pride, despite her fear and uncertainty…she wanted him to touch her…and she wanted to touch him.

They sat in tense silence and then slowly, with a shaking hand, Artanis reached out, beginning the forbidden act, as if compelled more by instinct than by thought, reaching for that silver bright hair, like a shower of stars, and she was almost there, the step was nearly complete…but ere she could touch it, the sound of the curtain being drawn open reached both their ears and they practically leapt apart, both too startled by the entrance of the king to realize that they had each been trembling with nervous excitement but a moment earlier. Artanis leapt to her feet to greet the king and whatever had passed between her and Celeborn had come to an end.

"Peace daughter of Earwen. You may be seated," Thingol said with a smile, seemingly having not noticed what he had just interrupted, before turning to his nephew. "My wayward child," he said, "Melian told me that you had been injured. Tell me, what trouble has your mischief gotten you into now?"

Artanis could feel her heart hammering in her chest in anticipation of the king's anger and she swallowed loudly. Celeborn's eyes glanced towards her and she thought for the briefest of moments that he might spare her by eliminating the details of her involvement in his accident but that relief was short lived indeed for Celeborn spoke, saying: "Whilst I was attending to my trees the Lady Artanis arrived in the gardens to tend to her potatoes. Seeing her there unawares and finding myself hidden in the tree, I proceeded to pour water upon her head, at which point the Lady Artanis became as enraged as a wild boar and began lobbing potatoes at me which I saw fit to return her way. Eventually our good natured fun got a bit out of hand and I was hit by one of her projectiles, which caused me to tumble from the tree, thus breaking my arm."

"I was not like a wild boar!" Artanis exclaimed, forgetting for a moment that she was before the king and must act with propriety. "Forgive me," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. Thingol merely laughed at her forgotten propriety and then made as though to speak several times but it seemed as if he could not find the words and finally he sighed, shaking his silver head.

"Is this true?" Thingol asked at last, turning to Artanis. "Did you knock my nephew from the tree with a well aimed potato?" Artanis turned to glare at Celeborn, who was grinning at her, well pleased with himself. Somehow it seemed that he always got the best of her and Artanis was not used to being bested.

"It is true," she said. But it was not Thingol's anger that she faced; rather, it seemed as though he looked…impressed. The king sat in thought for a moment before raising his eyebrows and nodding slowly at her.

"She has a good arm," he said, turning to Celeborn.

"That is what I told her," the prince replied.

"You deserve to have your arm broken," Thingol told him.

"Indeed I do," Celeborn said with a grin. "But I cannot pretend that it was not worth the trouble to see her warg-like snarl."

"And you could probably do with a bit of water every now and again to cool that hot head of yours," Thingol said to Artanis.

"I do not snarl like a warg," she hissed at Celeborn. He merely bared his teeth at her and growled in imitation, but before Thingol could reprimand him the healer entered. She too fussed over his broken arm, but, to Artanis's pleasure, with none of the tenderness that the nurses had shown. At last the arm was splinted, bandaged, and put in a sling, all with sharp warnings from the healer to rest and not overly exert himself. Somehow, Artanis thought with a small smile as she headed back to her quarters, she doubted that the prince would heed the healer's instructions.

*****

"Venessiel is fond of playing with her food before she eats it. You would do well to remember that. But dangle something before her that she cannot have and she will surely bite," Celeborn said to Finrod as they walked side by side down the hallway.

"Never fear my friend. You forget that I have had to contend with Artanis my entire life. I assure you that I can handle whatever tricks she wishes to throw my way." Finrod said.

"A few weeks ago I would have said that I doubt that your sister is as wily as you make her out to be," Celeborn said. "Yet I know better now." He stiffly raised his broken arm, still in its sling. But Celeborn knew that Finrod had been an accomplished statesman in Aman and he was not overly concerned about his ability to handle the Sindarin councilwoman.

"By the way, is it true that she was your lover?" The Noldo asked.

"Artanis?" Celeborn asked, puzzled, "I have already told you not to put trust in those rumors," but Finrod gave him a strange look.

"Of course not. I meant Venessiel."

"Yes, though that was a long time ago," Celeborn replied and Finrod chuckled.

"Well that explains a great many things doesn't it. Ah, we have arrived." The Noldo said, knocking upon the council chamber door before entering. The Lady Venessiel rose to greet them with a smile that could have turned a thousand hearts, though whether to war or to peace he knew not.

"My Prince Celeborn, my Lord Finrod, I bid you welcome." They seated themselves as she continued to speak. "I am ever so eager to hear your plans Lord Finrod, for the prince speaks so very highly of you. But I must implore you to understand that as the Minister of the Treasury I will only vote to fund those projects that offer a high return for relatively little risk. It is my duty to protect Menegroth's treasury and, thus far, I find your proposal wanting. I hope that you can put my mind at ease." She said, leaning forward with her bare arms on the table. But Finrod had seen that glint many times before in the eye of many a man and he knew that it signified a gambler.

"I understand the importance of your duties and I will do my best to set you mind at ease in that respect. I assure you that Prince Celeborn spoke most highly of you as well my Lady, though I fail to see how anyone could not do so." Finrod said with a bow and his most charming of smiles. "You strike me as one who knows that reward does not come without proportionate risk. In that regard, I must admit, I was expecting a lady with less conservative tastes." He flashed her another grin, completely at ease. Celeborn had to stifle a snicker when he saw Venessiel's somewhat scandalized expression. She had no idea what to do with the Noldo.

"Conservative…?" She managed to choke out. Celeborn liked to imagine that she was worried that Finrod thought she looked prudish. In a sleeveless gauzy dress that they could quite literally see through, she looked anything but conservative.

"Yes, conservative." Finrod spoke bluntly, a skill learned from Celeborn himself. "To tell you the truth, my impression was that you were one who seeks a little bit of adventure, who thrives on a little bit of risk…or a lot…and yet here you are telling me that you want to reap all of the spoils to be gained from my Nargothrond without taking any of the chances." Finrod set the chest that he had brought upon the table and deftly flipped open the golden latches, letting the lid fall open. From the top he took a map of the site where he proposed to build Nargothrond and spread it out upon the table. "This is the map that I drew up with Thingol himself, who provided expert knowledge of the region, and with the assistance of his most skilled cartographers, who have already surveyed the area." Then, from within the box, and with no small amount of ceremony, he began to draw objects of great wonder, treating them as though they were little more than trash.

"Silver." He withdrew a girdle of pure silver that sparkled like starlight and threw it down carelessly on the table before her. "Here are veins of silver, enough to produce millions of belts like this." He pointed at the map as Venessiel admired the fine filigree work of the girdle, ran her fingers over the elegant engraving.

"Gold." Finrod took out a beautiful hair comb with figures of deer and foxes upon it. "Enough to make billions of such combs. Here are the veins of gold." He pointed to the map. "All of these mines were discovered by the petty dwarves that used to live in this region but have since gone, abandoning their mines. We have been to the area and I have seen the entire place with my own eyes. But not all that Nargothrond has to offer is purely for fancy, nay, we can offer more useful metals as well."

"Copper." He withdrew a copper plate depicting a hunting scene. "With which you can make anything, even sturdy hulls for ships, protecting them from disease and barnacles. Could you not sell this to Cirdan at the havens? Does he not have need of copper?"

"Iron." He withdrew a dagger. "For the swords that will spell the doom of Melkor."

"And…there are other things. Jewels." He pulled out an elegant crown of gold wrought with vibrant emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, gently placing it upon her head. "For a woman who deserves to be a princess. I assure you that my cousins will pay an absurdly high price for jewels."

"But perhaps wealth is not your true concern. Perhaps it is safety." Finrod continued, taking the crown from Venessiel's head and tossing the other objects back into the chest unceremoniously. Celeborn watched her eyes stray towards the chest, longing to touch them again. Finrod was like a ringmaster and Venessiel was his captive audience, he dazzled her with the fantastic while all the while deftly practicing his craft – making it look effortless, a true salesman.

"You need not concern yourself over the safety of Nargothrond. It is well hidden, a secret realm like Menegroth. I will take with me some 4,000 of my people and there, from the hidden realm of Nargothrond we will wage a guerilla war upon Melkor and his demons. Beleriand will grow stronger under the union of our swords, impervious to evil forces until, at last, we drive him from these shores together. Do not tell me that a magnificent woman such as yourself is so tied to the past that she is unwilling to risk for the future." Finrod's voice was thick with excitement and, though it was now barely a whisper, it permeated the room like a drug.

"Nay, even now I see it in your eyes, yearning. You are caged here and it isn't enough for you, isn't big enough for you and your dreams. You want to get out, to escape, and you want to turn all of it to your will. You want to know when it is your turn and my reply is that your turn is now, at this very moment. Everything that you want is within your grasp: jewels, gold, silver, minerals, resources. With another citadel, with strong allies, your people will be free to go where you please without fear of Melkor. It lies at your fingertips. Are you strong enough to grasp it?" Even Celeborn was left speechless in the wake of Finrod's passion as the Noldo's eyes burned into Venessiel's. Slowly, with a satisfied smile upon her face, the lady extended her hand towards Finrod.

"Exclusive trade privileges for Menegroth." She said. Finrod grasped her hand.

"Done. So do I have your vote?"

"A lady does not kiss and tell Sir," she said coyly, "but I will speak to the King. And, know that when the vote is cast, I will strongly consider your suit."

"Then I await your kiss, my Lady," Finrod said with a grin, bending to kiss her ring, the ring of a minister of Doriath.

"Not yet," she said, rising and, with one last flirtatious smile at Finrod, sweeping from the room.

*****

"CELEBORN!" Beleg cried and Finrod and Celeborn both ducked beneath the surface of the hot bath water to avoid the bar of soap that the warden sent flying in their direction, emerging only when it was safe. Celeborn was still snickering gleefully for it had been he who had instigated the altercation, striking Beleg square in the stomach with a bar of soap. Finrod looked about warily to be sure the Beleg really had gone and then he relaxed against the side of the tub, idly playing with the white flowers that grew there.

"You led me to believe that Venessiel was more of a threat, yet she was easily purchased." Finrod said later as they relaxed in the baths.

"Oh Venessiel has a keen mind, make no mistake. Had you not been able to show her hard evidence that the money is there, had you not been able to show her exact numbers she would have rejected you, flat out. However, as you correctly presumed, she cannot resist a gamble, she is an addict of sorts, as most people who deal with money are. And she makes the mistake of equating it with authority." Celeborn replied.

"Besides," he ducked beneath the surface and then rose, wiping water out of his eyes, "she had already made up her mind. It was you that she was testing and – she likes to be courted, she likes you to put on a show for her. She must be wooed."

"I thought you were not supposed to get that wet," Finrod said, gesturing to Celeborn's splinted arm.

"Oh," the Sinda looked at it as though he had quite forgotten, "I suppose I am not." He rested it on the side of the bath.

Finrod laughed and raised his eyebrows. "Venessiel," he said, continuing their conversation, "sounds like a lot of work."

"She was," Celeborn whispered with a grimace. "Why, you're not interested in her are you?" He glanced at Finrod.

"No, No!" Finrod exclaimed, waving his hands in a gesture of denial. "She is a very attractive woman but no, not at all! I was merely making conversation! You…you aren't jealous are you?"

"No," Celeborn shook his head. "If you had wanted I would have recommended you to her, though I certainly would not advise it…"

"Thank you, my friend, but that will not be necessary. My heart, alas, is given to one whom I am fated to never meet again," Finrod said with a ponderous sigh.

"Forgive me, I did not know that you were betrothed," Celeborn said, surprised, for he and Finrod had become the closest of friends yet never before had the Noldo spoken to him of this matter, though many other conversations concerning private matters had passed between them.

"Had been," Finrod said, "had been betrothed…I am no longer."

"My apologies. I did not mean to be intrusive," Celeborn replied, thinking it best to press no further into this sensitive topic that he had inadvertently stumbled into.

"Amarie, that is her name," Finrod said, sighing and shaking his head. "Amarie of the Vanyar, with hair like spun gold. She loved me…and I loved her…and I left her." He paused, the silence growing long and Celeborn remained quiet, sensing that what his friend needed now was for him to only listen. "I…I sometimes wonder, nay, I often wonder if I have made a terrible mistake in coming here…" Finrod said, his voice faltering and a shadow seeming to pass over him.

"Surely you can return when you like and, if you do return…if you truly love one another, then perhaps all is not lost Finrod."

"But it is Celeborn! It is all lost," Finrod spoke with a hint of anger like a flash in the pan, quick to ignite and just as easily burned out. "I am Sorry," the Noldo murmured, "it is just that thinking of that matter makes me very cross indeed, but that is not your fault of course." They fell silent and Celeborn sensed that Finrod would very much like to change the subject.

"Tell me, Celeborn," the Noldo said, his face brightening, "do you not have a lady of you own? For I have heard that you do not, but I find that very difficult to believe."

"Aye, that is true!" Celeborn replied. "I have no lady at present."

"Is that so?" Finrod laughed. "But you have had many in the past have you not? You have that sense about you."

"That sense? Pray tell Finarfinian, what do you mean by that?" Celeborn asked, wrinkling his brow in mock disdain. "I fear they were all short lived."

"And why is that?"

"I see no sense in continuing things that aren't working."

"A discerning man…" Finrod grinned at his friend. "Tell me, what do you prefer? Perhaps I might be able to find you a wonderful Noldorin girl."

Celeborn shrugged. "Someone interesting, someone who challenges me…I would have said dark hair until…well…"

"Until when?" Finrod asked, his brow furrowed, turning to his friend. "Celeborn, you must understand that I have heard the rumors… about you and my sister. Neither one of you has been particularly discreet. Is there any truth to them?"

"No, no, of course not," Celeborn replied, but Finrod noted that his questions had engendered some nervousness in the perpetually confident Sinda. "I think of your sister as a friend and nothing more. Indeed, I hardly know her at all."

And, though his words eased Finrod's heart somewhat, the Noldo did not entirely believe what his friend had said. "It is…it is just, well, you know that Artanis has had many suitors before, high princes of the Vanyar, the Noldor, the Teleri…and she has rejected all of them without a second thought."

Celeborn had to bite his tongue to keep from reprimanding his friend, from reminding him that he too was a Teler, for he knew that the Noldo did not hold to that opinion, that they considered the Sindar to be completely severed from the Teleri, one Calaquendi and the other, himself, Moriquendi. "Are you saying that you do not believe your sister will ever allow herself to be courted?" He asked.

"No," said Finrod, haltingly, sensing that he trod now on delicate ground, wary of provoking Celeborn's more volatile side, even as he increasingly began to suspect that his friend's interest in his sister was not as innocent as he claimed. It wasn't that he did not like Celeborn, for, indeed, he was his dearest friend, it was merely that he could not ever imagine his proud sister, with all of her penchants for glory, fame, wealth, and power, ever marrying a woodland elf. And if any of the Sindar ever sought to court her, he was nearly positive that she would reject them even more cruelly than the princes of Aman, even if that elf were the high prince of Beleriand. "It is just that…well…Artanis wants for wealth, and power, and glory, and a crown of her own…not to live in a forest all her life, even if it is as a queen. Any Sindarin man who sought her hand would doubtlessly have his heart broken. My sister can be cruel."

"She has spoken to me of her desire for her own kingdom, but have you not just said that the princes of Aman sought to court her?" Celeborn asked. "So in other words she has already been offered all of these things that you say she desires and she rejected them. Perhaps you do not know what you sister wants. Perhaps she wants for something you have not thought of, or perhaps she needs something she did not anticipate. Most of us do not always realize at first what it is that we truly need." The prince's tone had been terse and Finrod judged it prudent to remain silent. Yet, the bubbling animosity between the two friends, one believing that his friend sought to deceive him in his intentions towards his sister, the other believing that his friend saw him as unworthy of her, threatened to spill over and Celeborn wisely quashed it before it could erupt.

"Oi, MABLUNG!" The Sindarin prince shouted, rising up out of the water with a bar of soap in his good hand, ready and aimed.

"Celeborn no!" Finrod cried, but his pleas were in vain. Biting his lip and narrowing his eyes Celeborn lobbed the soap at the black-haired march warden and Finrod watched in despair as it collided with a sound smack into Mablung's posterior. Giving up on actually enjoying his bath, Finrod quickly ducked beneath the surface once more as Mablung began to return fire.

But, despite the uneasiness that both of them had felt when discussing Artanis, it was not very long after that she was once more the topic of conversation between them, for the vote had passed and Thingol had generously provided everything that Finrod could have hoped for to start his new realm. But it seemed that the one thing that Finrod would not be taking with him, and something that Thingol could not give him, was the one thing that Finrod had wanted to take with him most of all: his sister.

"I have heard that the Lady Artanis will not be going with you," Celeborn remarked, helping Finrod load provisions into the hundreds of trunks that lay open about the chamber. It was a topic he was somewhat hesitant to raise, for he had only heard unconfirmed rumors, but his curiosity prevented him from staying his tongue.

They had been packing for days. There were cloaks woven by Melian and her maidens, an abundance of weaponry, casks of wine, tools, canoes, and fresh baked lembas still arriving from the kitchens. If there was anything that Finrod had learned in Doriath it was that the generosity of the Sindar knew no bounds. It was more, far more than Finrod had expected and even Celeborn had seemed surprised by it.

"I'm sorry Celeborn I wasn't listening," he said, for he had been so concentrated on how they were to get all of these things to the site of Nargothrond and still elves were filtering in and out, bringing more and more gifts.

"I have heard that the Lady Artanis will be staying in Menegroth," Celeborn repeated himself.

"Yes, that is true," said Finrod and it briefly occurred to him that, once again, that Celeborn seemed unusually interested in Artanis but he did not dwell on the thought for there were far more pressing matters on his mind at the moment.

"I would have thought that she would choose to journey with you," Celeborn said. "Has she given any particular reason for wishing to stay?" From the stormy look that flashed momentarily across Finrod's face, the Sinda could see that he had touched upon a nerve. Clearly Finrod was not pleased that his sister was not going and they had likely argued over it.

"I believe that she wishes to continue her studies with Melian," Finrod said with a hint of agitation in his voice but he was still distracted, counting barrels of wine, "though she was rather opaque about the matter."

"That may be the wiser choice, given her condition," Celeborn said. As soon as he said it he realized that it was, perhaps, one of those things that he ought to have kept to himself. Sometimes Celeborn wished most heartily that he could take back his own words.

"Her condition?" Finrod asked, turning about fully to face his friend, brow furrowed. "Whatever do you mean by that?" Celeborn wanted to tell him to forget that he had said anything at all but he knew that Finrod would never accept that answer.

"Her…visions…" Celeborn said tentatively, not wishing to offend his friend. Finrod shrugged.

"And I sometimes have visions too. Foresight is common amongst the Eldar. What of it?" The Noldo's voice was more than a bit perturbed and he turned away, loading pick axes into a crate.

"But, yours are not…hers are not the same as yours," Celeborn chose his words carefully, though he still felt as though he had entered a minefield of sorts.

"Speak clearly Celeborn. I have never known you to mince your words," Finrod said with a sigh, some of the tension draining from his voice. Now he merely sounded tired. But Finrod was distracted and their conversation lapsed into silence as he tended to other things while Celeborn's mind retreated into the past, to his memories of a festival a few weeks prior that they had held at Thingol's behest to congratulate the young Noldorin prince on his impending kingship.

Even Saeros and Oropher had not been able to feign haughty indifference to the festivities that night, but had joined in the feasting and the drinking and even the dancing with a great deal of merriment. And Celeborn had watching in amusement, laughing all the while as a drunken Oropher had boldly wrapped an arm about Venessiel's lithe waist and drawn the protesting yet smiling Minister of the Treasury into a jig.

But his eyes only regarded them momentarily before returning once more to that person who seemed to hold his gaze ever captive. He had never been one to pine after girls, yet it had been the memory of the flash of fire in her eyes, the way that her athletic body had flexed when she had leapt in the air, the radiance of her smile, the concern in her kind eyes and not the pain in his arm that had kept him awake during the day, when everyone else was asleep. He raised a hand, running his fingers through his hair; she had almost touched it, she had wanted to, he was certain of it, had seen it in her eyes. And yet there had been fear there as well. He smiled to himself and wondered if that was how things were in Aman, if ladies took no active part in courting the man that was courting them. _How very dull,_ he thought. He supposed that he could have asked Finrod if things were that way in Aman, _but no, that will not do, for then he would know and grow angry._

He would have liked to ask her to dance with him, wondered if she would have agreed, but his arm hung uselessly in its sling. That, he mused, was mostly his own fault, for Artanis's potato had landed a solid blow but he never would have fallen if he had not been so distracted by her that he could hardly keep his own thoughts straight, much less tread with as much agility as he was accustomed within the trees that he himself had raised, in which every branch and every leaf was known to him well. Thingol had understood this too and, though he had enough of a sense of propriety to not unmask Celeborn's desires so plainly before the object of them there in the healers' quarters, the prince knew that his uncle had understood and that he had been less than pleased.

Yet it was not only his broken arm that restrained him, nor was it merely a sense of caution in response to his uncle's inevitable displeasure, or Finrod's, but a certain reticence that grew in him in response to the lady's own behavior. For from the first time that he had beheld her that night he knew that something was amiss, some darkness in her eyes that was not usually there seemed to plague her and when he had greeted her she had seemed distracted, brusquer than normal, offering none of the playful banter that typified their conversations. It was as if she wished nothing more to escape this crowd of people and return to her quarters to be in solitude, but propriety would not allow it. So she wandered the party, speaking to very few and then only momentarily, feigning joy, and others seemed to buy into her façade but to Celeborn, who had studied her mannerisms until he knew them as well as a painter knows every brush stroke of his masterpiece, it was immediately clear that something was gravely amiss. And he did not wish to impose a dance upon her while she was indisposed so he restrained himself.

At first he had assumed that she was unwell because she had had harsh words with Finrod, for already there were rumors circulating that the siblings would be separated with him traveling to Nargothrond and Artanis remaining behind in Menegroth. But it soon became clear to him that this was not the reason, for her momentary lapses in composure betrayed that her predicament was more serious indeed than a simple sibling's quarrel. In those moments in which she thought that no one was looking she would lean heavily upon a table, her knuckles white and her eyes clenched shut as though a white hot poker had been driven through her heart. At other times he saw her clutch at her head as if she wished that she could break it open and rip bits and pieces of her brain away.

And then, finally, after sinking against the wall with a profound weariness, he had seen her dart away from the party, staggering like a deer shot through with arrows, to escape down an abandoned corridor. He had followed her without thought, careful to hide his exit, consumed by worry. And Melian's words reverberated in his mind: she hides a dark secret. He found her at last and she had hidden herself well, but not well enough that he could not find her here in the stone forest of his own palace. She was sitting on the ground in a small grotto of stone beeches, quite out of the way, and she seemed not to notice his approach at all, for her eyes were wide with terror and her breath came in short gasps.

_Finrod, her brother, chained in a dungeon deep and dark, his fea crying out for her with the hopelessness of one who never hoped to see the light of the stars again. And his voice had grown weak, his throat parched and he had no more power left within him to give birth to song. And then the darkness came, knowing him to be defeated, and he struggled to his feet one last time, his knees nearly buckling beneath him._

_If Artanis could have moved then she would have but she was frozen, twice condemned to watch in stunned and horrified silence as the werewolf, a great beast twice her brother's size with claws like knives and fangs thick as her fist, its body a mass of powerful sinewy muscle, descended upon him. They would repay their debt in kind, even as Mandos has said._

Suddenly she became aware of someone kneeling before her, a pair of green eyes looking into her own, a firm hand clasping her shoulder tightly. "Breathe," a soothing voice said and at first she felt as though her lungs were made of iron, stiff and immobile, but gradually, as she watched the calm eyes, she began to draw breath, matching her breathing to the slow, controlled breathing of the one who now sat opposite her. The vision slowly faded and, in time, the world began to swim back into focus, blurry at first, but growing clearer. She swallowed, the terror had faded but she was still shaking as though she stood naked in the midst of the helcaraxe.

"All is well, just breathe, breathe with me. Look into my eyes," Celeborn reassured her and, for some reason, she seemed to trust his voice, though he could see in the depths of her eyes that she struggled to obey. Something dark had caught hold of her and would not yet release her. But he held her gaze firmly, commanding her to look at him, holding her here in the present where the visions could not overcome her.

"Galadriel, come back to me," he commanded, firmly but not ungently and, dutifully, she began to breathe. Celeborn held her hand firmly for many long minutes until, eventually, the trembling stopped and her head seemed to clear entirely, like the sun after a spring rain shower.

"Your highness…" She whispered, horrified now to realize whom those eyes belonged to. Celeborn was seated opposite her, cross-legged, holding her hand with one hand, his other hanging limply in its sling and he let his hand drop. "I am so sorry to have troubled you," she said, her face was as red as a poppy. "I cannot imagine what you must think of me to come across me in such a state. Truly, I am little better than a child."

"Visions," Celeborn said simply with a small smile, for he was not the least bit disturbed or surprised. It wasn't what she had expected, a far cry from the shrieks of fear and looks of distrust that she was usually treated to whenever it happened.

"How did you know?" She asked, nodding her head.

"Melian has visions," he said, "but surely you know that." Artanis nodded again.

"What I mean is, how did you know what to do?"

"That is what Thingol does for Melian," he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "Although, it is quite rare that it is necessary. She has very good control over hers."

"And I do not," she said, casting her eyes downwards.

"Forgive me, I did not mean…" he stammered.

"The truth of the matter is, I have never been able to control them," she confessed, the words pouring out now that she had found someone who cared to listen. "When it first happened when I was a child I scared everyone so badly. My parents thought that there was something horribly wrong with me and they made me lie abed for weeks at a time whenever it would happen. I know that they had the best of intentions, that they were merely worried about me, afraid I would fall and hurt myself or something while I was…elsewhere. And I, I was so frightened, little understanding what was happening to me or why I could not be like other children."

"No one understands, they don't understand why I cannot control them because of course lots of elves have visions and Finrod has them too but mine are not normal, they're not like Finrod's, they're not like everyone else's."

"How are they?" Celeborn asked.

"Like a bad dream," she said, "one of those truly horrid ones where it seems that it is really happening to you, where you want to scream but cannot open your mouth, or you want to move but your limbs remain frozen, or you want to wake but are powerless to do so. That is how they are."

"Hmmm," Celeborn was holding her hand again now, rubbing her fingers. "Yours are just stronger," he said, "Melian's are strong too. It means you are powerful and there is nothing wrong with that. It is a gift for that is one of the many ways in which she protects Doriath."

"It is only a gift if it can be controlled," Artanis said, wiping the gathering moisture from her eyes, determined not to cry and thereby add to her embarrassment. "And, I cannot control them. I don't know how to discern which ones will come to pass and which ones won't, or what parts are true and which are false or anything like that. And, acting on visions you cannot control and do not understand is dangerous. It would be better if I do not go with Finrod to Nargothrond. None of his people trust me. They are all frightened of me. They know my visions are dangerous. They know I can't control them," she confessed as Celeborn listened silently, a benign smile upon his face.

"I'm sorry," she said, laughing suddenly, interrupting herself, "my Sindarin is so poor and poorer still when I am upset. Here I've just burdened you with all of my thoughts and done so clumsily at that."

"No!" He shook his silver head. "I understood your Sindarin perfectly. And you needn't worry; it is no burden. That is a prince's duty, to know all those in his realm well and to help them put their talents to the best of uses."

"Is that what I am to you," She said with a laugh, "your subject?"

"You are also my friend," he said, "or so I would hope." _And more, he thought, I want so much more from you than friendship Galadriel._

She smiled. "You are too kind, friend, especially after I have done you the injustice of breaking your arm," she said, wiping at her eyes again but Celeborn simply rubbed her hand.

"Perfection is too impossible a thing to ask of yourself," he said, as if he had read her mind. "We all have our imperfections. I am sure that you will be able to control your visions with time," he assured her, "especially with Melian's guidance. She understands the true power of premonitions." He smiled at her. "Your mother is right, you are too hasty."

"Is that so?" Artanis laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling in joy. "Oh yes, I can almost hear her say so. "She would like you, Celeborn," she patted his hand, "she would like you very much."

He laughed. "I am glad to hear you say that Galadriel." She shot him a quick gaze, but there was no anger in her eyes as there had been the last time he had used it, merely playful annoyance.

"Are you trying to bait me?" She asked him.

"Perhaps," he grinned.

"That name – it is like sugar over top of syrup, far too much of a good thing," she laughed.

"We Sindar have none of your Noldorin restraint," Celeborn said, standing and offering her his hand. "Have you not already learned that we eat until we can eat no more, drink until we are drunker than dwarves, and dance until our legs can no longer hold us."

"Do you mean to say that you will call me whatever you like regardless of whether or not I approve?" She asked him, laughing as she took his hand and pulled herself up.

"More or less," he smiled and she shook her head, laughing, her sadness quite forgotten.

"Will you return to the party? If you do not wish to then I will make your excuses for you if you like." He said.

"Thank you," she told him, her eyes meeting his as he offered her his arm. "Truth be told, I find that I would much rather walk in the pavilion under the stars with only you for company yet propriety dictates that I must return." She smiled and having so said, she took his arm. "Will you return as well so that I might take the starlight with me?"

"If that is what you wish," he replied.

"You know, perhaps it isn't politic of me to say it but, when we came here there were so many of the Noldor who said such terrible things about the Sindar but I think that you are the best people I have ever met." She admitted and Celeborn laughed, but in his heart he was still struggling to recover from the light touch of her hand on his arm.

"There are a few of your relatives who have somewhat of a superiority complex aren't there," he said with a grin as they threaded their way back through the corridors, growing ever closer to the hubbub of the festivities.

"A few?" She said, raising an eyebrow. "I tried to run away to the opposite end of the earth and I still couldn't escape them." They both laughed at that. "And how is your poor arm?" She asked him.

"Healing," he said, "albeit rather slowly. I fell from quite a height."

"If there is any way that I can repay you for the trouble that I have caused please do not hesitate to ask," she said and Celeborn could think of a thousand ways in which he would like her to atone but he named only one.

"A dance perhaps," he told her, "though crippled I may be it is still something that I enjoy and I should be most loath indeed to go an entire evening without it."

"That," she said, taking his hand, "is something I can manage." And Melian smiled as she watched them move amongst the other dancers, for things were to her as they ought to be, but Thingol looked on with discontent and the shadow of dark words was growing in his heart.

"My apologies Celeborn," Finrod said with a sigh as he bound up a bunch of arrows, "for you were speaking but I have not been listening as a friend ought. Forgive me for being so remiss." His words brought his friend out of his reverie.

"Don't worry yourself," Celeborn told his friend. "I only meant to say that Artanis seems to be learning a great deal from Melian and I can understand why she would be loath to give up her tutelage."

"That may be so, but I shall miss her greatly," Finrod sighed, "though I suppose that is a selfish thing for me to say. Yes, you are right of course, she can profit greatly from staying in Menegroth, already I have seen such positive growth in her. You must promise me that you shall look after her closely while I am gone and see that she is happy for there is none that I trust more than you, my friend."

"Of course, think nothing of it. It is no trouble at all," Celeborn assured him. "Besides, it will not be as bad as you are thinking, I am sure of it. I am certain that she will visit you and that you will return to Menegroth on occasion. Nargothrond is not so very far. Moreover, I am sure that you will be completely absorbed in building your city and you will have hardly a spare moment to contemplate your sister or your friends," Celeborn said with a wry grin.

"Scarcely a moment to contemplate either of you," Finrod goaded the Sinda.

"For shame," Celeborn replied, "then I shall have to find some productive way to fill your sister's hours, lest she waste away from grief." And his friend looked up at him with a face halfway between disbelief and horror.

"Surely I have only just now mistaken your meaning," he said.

"I was only jesting, as were you!" Celeborn said with a hearty laugh, earning himself an elbow from Finrod.


	7. Fledgling

  
**Fledgling**

In Cavern's Shade: 7th Chapter

*****

"When he shall die,  
Take him and cut him out in little stars,  
And he will make the face of heaven so fine  
That all the world will be in love with night  
And pay no worship to the garish sun."

– William Shakespeare

*****  


Already the night was nearly halfway through when Celeborn heard the rapping upon his door and the following murmur of voices as his servant greeted whomever it was who had come to call. His ears perked with interest for things in Menegroth had been dull without Finrod about and with Beleg and Mablung being constantly on the borders nowadays and they were made duller still by his broken arm, which prevented him from doing most productive things that he enjoyed and left him to overindulge in his vices.

And, speaking of vices…as he looked up he saw that his servant had ushered the Lady Artanis into his chambers and he sat up a bit straighter, for he had been slouching upon the chaise on which he was seated and he did not want to appear hunched before her, of all people. He fumbled to put away the ledgers that he had barely been paying attention to, the monotonous recordings of the complaints that had been brought to him that evening in court.

"The Lady Artanis if you please your highness," the servant said and Celeborn nodded, dismissing his man, his heart eager.

However, in his haste to put away the ledgers he only managed to drop them completely and she had the good grace, backed by a sensible upbringing, to feign as though she had not seen. It was somewhat unsettling that she was here now in his quarters, not that he was upset by it, no, not at all, quite the opposite in fact; it was only that it was rather like finding a pearl on the beach, pleasant yet unexpected, and he found himself feeling unprepared, wondering what he should do with such unlooked for bounty.

It was, if anything, almost so good a thing that he could not quite bring himself to believe it. For he had, for a long while now, waited and hoped for some movement from her and now, at last, here she was. He found himself wishing that he had kept his rooms more tidy, for they were among the most splendid in Menegroth and he would have wished for her to see them in that magnificence. Thus it was with some slight disappointment that he looked about to see idle stacks of parchment, books piled here and there, plants growing rampant all over everything, opened bottles of ink dotting the rooms, a knife embedded in the surface of a writing desk, and a half mounted deer's head left abandoned in a corner. And yet, even if his chambers had been at the height of their glory, they still would not have compared to the majesty of her.

A village girl with the air of a queen she seemed, for there was nothing regal about her garments, indeed they were very plain: a simple summery, green, cotton gown over which was still pinned a white apron. Her hair was sloppily tied up in a white kerchief and her face was a bit pink, as if from the heat of a fire, trace amounts of flour powdering her nose. She looked positively lovely, even in disarray, or perhaps even more so because of it, and she was all the more beautiful for the fact that in her hands she bore a silver tray of what appeared to be his favorite cakes, small morsels of golden pastry filled with rich custard and topped with nutmeg. He could not help but smile and she smiled in return as he hurried to pick the ledgers up and push them onto a table.

"Galadriel," he said by way of greeting.

"Your highness," she dipped into a small curtsey, her face alight with mock decorum and a hint of what he perceived to be nervousness. Nevertheless, she still managed to roll her eyes at the use of that name. "I thought it might behoove me to make some sort of further recompense for the discomfort and trouble I have doubtlessly caused you." He doubted not that there was truth to her words and, yet, he suspected some motive other than the one that she had suggested, for his arm had been broken for a while, and she had not sought to make recompense before now. In time, he thought, he would draw it out of her.

"Just Celeborn, please," he said in response to her feigned decorum. "And that was certainly kind of you, though unnecessary I assure you. However, as you have already made them, and as they appear to be my favorite, I certainly cannot refuse." He smiled at her and gestured with his good hand to the table with the ledgers beside the lounge upon which he sat. "If you will share them with me then I shall consider us even and will refrain from having you prosecuted for crippling the future of Doriath."

"Future of Doriath," Artanis snorted and rolled her eyes with a laugh, her polite façade falling away, but she set the tray down on the table nevertheless. "Am I to suppose by that that you mean yourself? How very bleak."

"You wound me lady," he said with a laugh, yet it was not true, for her playful banter, as ever, only served to cause his heart to swell with joy. "If you would like, there is some wine and there are several glasses in that cupboard over there," he said, indicating it to her. "My apologies. I would be a better host but someone has broken my arm." Artanis narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head as she went to fetch the wine and glasses.

"I would have thought that you would have healed by now," she said. "It has been almost two months has it not?"

Celeborn chuckled. "Indeed. It seems that I am a rather troublesome patient. If I could only obey the healer's orders properly then I would certainly have healed by now."

"Well then, let us lay the blame squarely where it belongs. That is your fault rather than mine," said Artanis.

It appeared that despite the recent intimacy that had grown between them, the barbed humor would continue and she was glad for it, for Celeborn proved an intriguing sparring partner both with weapons and with words. Like an onion, the more layers of him she peeled away the more complex he seemed to grow until she found herself somewhat overwhelmed by his potency. She returned momentarily, setting the glasses upon the table and filling them with strong spirits. He raised an eyebrow.

"Whiskey." He said plainly and she stopped pouring.

"If you prefer wine – "

"No," he shook his head and laughed. "Whiskey will do nicely. It is only that…well, I wonder if it would offend your Noldorin sensibilities to be drinking such strong liquor alone in a male's chambers." Before, perhaps due to his surprise and delight, he had not thought of it but now it dawned on him that this might not be considered an appropriate situation amongst her people, though to the Sindar it was certainly not unusual, and his less than comfortable conversations with Finrod regarding Artanis came to mind.

"My Noldorin sensibilities," she repeated, shaking her head with a grin. "Do I strike you as a woman who cannot handle herself?" she said with a laugh, giving him a look as though he were half mad while she topped off the glasses.

"On the contrary. That was not what concerned me," he replied.

"Then I assure you that I can handle my brother," she told him, putting the cork back in the bottle. How easily she had discerned his mind. She saw Celeborn relax and laugh at her words. "So I have hit the mark," she said and he watched like a man entranced as she raised the glass of golden liquor to her lips and drank fully, as a soldier might, but certainly not a lady. He thought her glorious.

"Is there anything else you desire of me my lord, now that I have brought you refreshment and poured your liquor?" Artanis said in mockery.

"Many more things," he said with a grin, "and I will leave you to conjecture what they are." He was pleased to see that she appeared just a little bit shocked, her pretty lips hanging slack for a moment.

"I have given you those," she said, pointing at the cakes and raising one golden brow. "And I can take them away just as easily. You know I will make good on my word."

"I thought you came of your own accord?" He said. He did so love teasing her. "In that case you are free to leave at any time if my conduct seems unfit to you. However, I shall act as I please within my own chambers."

"I suppose I should not be surprised, seeing as you are well known for your impudence." She seated herself regally after handing him his glass, a sour look upon her face, but he knew it for the farce that it was, for a simple glance at her eyes told him that her mind was working quickly to think of a way to turn his joke back upon him.

"Will you act the prude now Artanis?" He murmured with a grin. "Perhaps I do not have your foresight, but I do not need it to discern your thoughts, or to understand what it is that you want from me." It was bold of him perhaps, and his heart seemed to catch in his throat even as he said it, for he had his suspicions but they were yet unconfirmed and he was pleased to see the faintest blush bloom upon her cheeks. There was nothing that delighted him quite as being the cause of her consternation.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted in a smirk. "Is that so?" Was all she said, for she knew not whether he was bluffing or whether he had truly discerned her thoughts, though her heart was certainly racing as if he had. 'The Sindar are less wise and more dangerous,' Finrod had said. And she could understand what he meant by it when she was with Celeborn for he could turn from a well-mannered prince to a veritable rouge in the matter of an instant and, at times, she almost felt as though he were some great cat about to devour her. Yet she was not afraid, no, in the recesses of her mind she was aware that she sought him out, goaded him into it.

"It must be your imagination," she said with a grin as he popped another of the cakes into his mouth, watching her with intensity. "But tell me how are the cakes?" She took a long drink from her whiskey as he ate another. "I trust they are to your satisfaction?" And she was pleased to see him nearly choke at her overly innocent tone as he surveyed her now with suspicion. She could play at his game.

"Why?" Celeborn asked. "Have you done something to them?" For he had belatedly realized that she had not yet partaken herself.

"Nothing." Artanis grinned, popping one into her mouth and Celeborn breathed a sigh of relief, "although, I rather wish I had, just to perturb you." He laughed.

"They are excellent," Celeborn told her, "as good as Melian's, truly. You have my thanks." They truly were, and made all the better by the fact that Artanis had made them, and made them especially for him.

"I am glad to hear it," she replied. "It is her own recipe and she instructed me in how to make them after I told her I wanted to make things good between us."

Celeborn took a drink as Artanis stood to remove her apron. He watched over the rim of his glass as she untied it from her slender waist and unpinned the top from her bodice, folding it to set it on the seat beside her. Reaching up, she untied her kerchief and her hair tumbled free in waves of gold, lit by the light of the fire that also cast delicate shadows in the hollow of her neck, along the line of her graceful shoulder. She had flour on her nose but he said nothing of it, for it added a certain charm to her appearance.

"Why did you come here?" He asked her.

"You must be more specific when you are asking me those sorts of questions Celeborn," she said, if only to stave off the inevitable. Before he had made her feel deliciously uncomfortable, now she felt actually uncomfortable, but, after all, she had initiated this precisely because she had wanted to explain, as much as she dreaded it. But perhaps things had not changed after all, for he still seemed to enjoy her company, despite what he had seen. But no, she twisted her hands in her dress, she could not fathom how he could possibly bring himself to care, _truly care,_ for one so ruined as her.

"You know what I mean," he said in reply, a bit perturbed, in truth, with her constantly putting him off with such pointless phrases as though he were a child who would not inquire further. And why could she not give him a straight answer? Had they not said that they were friends? Were they not both certain that it was something more than friendship that they felt for one another?

"I do not want you to think me weak," she said, her voice falling and she felt a strange trembling in her chest for the last time they had spoken had been the first time that they had shared conversation of any intimacy and that had been accidental but this time, this time she had sought to establish it again, if only to explain her strange behavior when last they had met, but now she worried that perhaps she had intruded where she ought not to have done so.

"Tell me, and be straight with me this time," he said, impatient now that she had shown some strange reticence, "what are you so frightened of?" He was a prince, a prince of Doriath and he was not accustomed to having matters of importance withheld from his knowledge.

_Of you, she thought, that you will consume me as fire consumes wood until nothing but charcoal remains, and of myself, that I wish to be consumed, that if I embrace you as I wish I will be destroyed._

"The woman you saw last, that is not who I am, it is not who I wish to be," she replied, and she doubted not that, like him, her agitation was present in her tone of voice.

"It is who you are," Celeborn replied leaning forward, serious now but still impatient. He had given her no cause to distrust him yet she distrusted him nevertheless. It was the first time that he found himself angry with her, though he knew that anger was but the child of frustration. Why could she not see the woman that he had seen, brilliant and blinding as the rising sun, _Galadriel_?

"If you saw me as I truly was then you would have no regard for me at all," she said in a rush of tense words, her breast heaving now with anger. He did not understand, how could he? He knew nothing of the darkening of Valinor, of the Kinslaying, or the Helcaraxe, of all she had endured. And, if he knew aught of it then he would turn her out into this pitiless world alone, a world where she could not find _him,_ and there was no cage more narrow than exile; that she knew all too well. This had all been folly, all of it; she saw it clearly now and wished nothing more than to be far, far away from him, far from that lingering gaze of his that so easily surmounted the citadel of her heart, her mind.

"Will you not let me decide that for myself?" He cried. But she rose, though whether the greater part of her motivation for doing so was fear or anger she could not tell and, turning, she began to make for the door. She only knew that she felt numb and that something about him frightened her more than she had ever been frightened, for when she was near him she could not help but feel as though every secret that she sought to keep hidden would tumble from her mouth and, unrestrained, that she would tell him the whole, sordid, unadulterated tale.

"Artanis!" He called, his voice loud, angry, the tone of a man who felt his hopes slipping through his fingers like water. She turned, her hand upon the door but he rushed forward taking her hand in his, holding it tight. The anger was gone from his eyes now and had been replaced with a certain fervent urgency, as of a man seeking to save the last vestiges of that which he held most dear.

"Whatever you are running from," he said, "it will catch you in the end. Wherever you go, your past will follow you. You cannot escape it or pretend that it belongs to some other self, for you cannot divide your fea thusly; there is only you. Perhaps you will not tell me why you left Aman, though I have inquired, but even though that is so, I can still surmise that given time enough you will grow to loath this land just as much as Aman, if not more so. For the problem is not the place, but rather, something that you carry with you, inside of you. How can you control your visions and find this freedom you seek if you run from your demons forever? Will you not turn and face them, even if I stand by your side, could we not prevail?"

"And who are you to lecture me as though I am a petulant child?" She cried, tearing her hand from his grasp.

"Your friend, or so I thought," he said, his tone terse, his face tense. But Artanis made no reply for she only wished to flee to her own chambers where she might shed tears alone over that most fantastic of things that she had just thrown away, as though it were nothing more than a scrap of paper. But what other choice had she? They had made her swear to secrecy and he… there was no greater threat to that secrecy than whatever it was that she held in her heart for him.

Celeborn stood at the door in silence until long after the echoes of her fleeing footfalls could no longer be heard in the deserted corridor before he shut the door quietly and returned to his chambers, prodding the dying embers of the fire for a moment with the poker, remembering how their glow had lit her face. He tossed the poker down somewhat angrily and it clattered on the floor, shedding ashes upon the carpet where it had landed, but he cared not.

He sat down but sprang up again almost immediately for the argument had made him restless and he wanted to pace or, better yet, to go shoot something but the dawn had nearly arrived and they would all think him mad going out for target practice at this hour alone so he paced instead.

He had seen it before, that fierce flaring of stubborn pride and that strange shame - that time he had touched her hair, foolishly, boldly, like a little boy reaching for a toy. She had rebuked him with hollow words, reminding him of the penalty for his transgression had they been in Valior, yet once more her eyes and her words had not rhymed. For in her eyes had been a longing, as though she had only mentioned Valinor so that he might remind her, as he had, that they were not there and that here, at least, she was free to do as she desired.

But this time his words had been met with retaliation and, finally, with flight, like a deer running from the arrow that pursues it, yet she had never struck him as one to flee in the face of adversity and he wondered what it was that frightened her so, was it _him_? Had he done something horribly wrong? Perhaps he had intruded where he had not been wanted. Perhaps he had misread her polite and spirited demeanor for love where there was none.

He sat down heavily and the anger deflated from him like a bellows expelling air, a hollow ache seeping into the place where it had been. He had only wanted to show her that the freedom she sought was within her reach, that she was strong enough to surmount this problem and that he thought her courageous, that she need not fear happiness, yet she had recoiled as though he had forced a scalding hot kettle into her hands. But perhaps it had been too much – a seed planted in untilled earth and, as ever it seemed, he found himself regretting the words he had spoken and the intimacy that he had, perhaps, forced upon her.

*****

"Faster!" Luthien sent up a laugh and a war whoop as she charged ahead. The princess sped out of sight but they could all hear the crunch of her horse's hooves over fallen leaves as she circled back around through the woods to join up with them. Emerging from the trees wearing a broad grin, she bent forward to pat her black mare on the neck. "Oh do come with me, one of you. This is the dullest hunt I have ever attended! Artanis, come on!"

"If you tire your horse out before we have even sighted any game then you will have a very dull time indeed," Celeborn shouted back at her. He was in extraordinarily good spirits now that his arm had healed but he kept his distance from Artanis, riding instead beside Thingol while Luthien led the party and Beleg Strongbow rode at the king's other hand. Behind the Doriathrin nobles rode Artanis and an assorted party of courtiers including Oropher and Venessiel, who had been riding side by side all morning, conversing in hushed tones.

There were also several of Thingol's favorite huntsmen, one of whom was in charge of the pack of exuberant hounds that followed them, and a few of Luthien's ladies. The followers were mostly along for fun rather than sport and, of the ladies, only Artanis and Luthien were dressed in hunting gear. Artanis spurred her palomino mare, a gift from Melian, passing by Celeborn's chestnut stallion. As she rode by to join Luthien, the great gray hunting owl that sat on his shoulder turned its orange eyes towards her quizzically even though the prince himself seemed reluctant to meet her glance. Artanis tightened her lips over he teeth as she passed, too embarrassed at their recent argument to even give him a proper greeting.

"Excellent!" Luthien exclaimed as Artanis joined her.

"We are moving so slowly because there are far too many people in our party," the Noldorin lady told her friend in a conspiratorial tone.

"I know! I told father not to invite everyone and his brother but, well, you know how he is: the more the merrier." Luthien groaned. "I only want to go fast. I'd fly if I could."

"Perhaps if you let the prince's great honking owl catch ahold of you then you could fly. It looks as though it could lift a ton." Said Artanis with a wry grin, glancing back at the owl. It seemed that Celeborn had been watching her for their eyes inadvertently met and then the both of them looked away quickly.

"Valar, I hate that thing." Luthien growled under her breath. "He uses it to keep all of the small game to himself before I can even get a shot off. It isn't fair." She scowled and just then the hounds began baying. Suddenly alert, Luthien took her bow to hand, her keen eyes scanning the brush ahead as the hounds charged by. Artanis gripped her spear, hearing those behind her ready themselves as well.

"A fox!" Luthien exclaimed, before charging ahead, drawing an arrow from her quiver and loosing it. Artanis followed, hearing her ever hasty friend curse as her shot missed. Yet, as Luthien leant down from her charging horse to snatch the arrow up from where it was embedded in the ground, the great gray owl soared over her head, diving violently into a mass of ferns. There was a brief scuffle and a yelp before the owl rose triumphant, a dead fox clasped tightly in its talons and, taking wing, returned to its master's shoulder.

Artanis reined her horse in and turned about to see Thingol, Celeborn, and Beleg laughing together. Ah well, the prince may have had first blood but she would have her blood yet. None of them had seen her hunt before and she hoped to surprise them with her skill. Luthien returned to her side looking as though steam would momentarily billow from her ears, her grey eyes flashing angrily.

"You're a thief Celeborn!" She called.

"You had your chance and you missed cousin!" He taunted her. Just then the hounds started baying again and charged off into an open meadow. There was a momentary flurry as everyone began to spur their horses and then their party burst forth into that same meadow, their horses breaking forth into a gallop. Artanis leaned low across her mare's neck, enjoying the feel of the wind in her face. Her spear almost seemed to tremble with excitement in her hand. Celeborn's owl flew high overhead as the hounds charged across the field and then the prey came into sight.

"A boar, a boar!" She heard Thingol shout as his bay mare drew abreast of her palomino. The horses strained at the reins, wanting to go faster, the first time they had been allowed to run today. The boar charged through a thicket, still far ahead, turning towards the west and Artanis turned to cut across the arc of its path, hoping to close the gap but Beleg and Celeborn had anticipated the boar's movement as well and she found herself running with them now. Both of them had their hunting bows at the ready and, as they began to slowly close the distance to the boar, they released their arrows. She heard them whistle through the air and, while Beleg's struck, Celeborn's embedded itself in the ground. She saw Beleg turn back and taunt the prince, though his words were lost in the racket of the baying of the hounds. Celeborn made some reply and laughed before leaning down from the saddle as they came upon his arrow, his head nearly touching the ground at a full gallop as he grabbed it.

Artanis urged her mare forwards. The leggy horse was a fast mount and she was able to outpace the stockier horses that Celeborn and Beleg rode. Just as Celeborn had predicted, Luthien had tired her horse out before the hunt and Artanis could hear her following at a distance, fuming no doubt. Thingol was approaching once more, his magnificent bay charger eating up the ground, and Artanis's mare reveled in the competition, increasing her pace. They were steadily closing the gap and her heart was pounding in anticipation; she could see the boar quite clearly now.

A stone fence rose up in front of them and their horses leapt over it but Artanis hardly noticed it for her eyes were focused on the boar, anticipating his path, considering the ways in which she could reduce that distance. One of Celeborn's white tipped arrows flew over her head, striking this time in the boar's shoulder. Thingol and Artanis's horses were gaining ground now and she was only just realizing how large a boar truly was, how long and sharp its tusks were, a far different beast than the deer she had hunted with her cousins in Aman. But she did not feel fear, rather, she anticipated being the one to fell the beast, to triumph. She lifted her brass-handled spear over her shoulder, relaxing her grip on it: tense throws make for poor blows; her father's words echoed in her mind. The blade of her spear was long and sharp, as long as her forearm, and she would strike true with it. She was determined. She spurred her mare, willing her to overtake Thingol's charger, for the king was readying his bow and it had a longer range than her spear.

Somehow her mare found an extra burst of energy and surged forward. It was still a little too far but perhaps she could do it, perhaps. Yet, if she did not take this chance then Thingol would certainly fell the beast before she. Even now he was sighting his arrow; this was her last opportunity. Breathing out slowly, Artanis willed herself to be calm as she drew back her arm, rising tall in the saddle, her muscles supple and relaxed, and in one swift motion she let the great spear fly forth from her hand, her arm extending all the way forward after she had released, following the trajectory of the missile just as her father had taught her. The spear flew like a meteor, straight and true to strike home between the boar's shoulder blades, dropping it like a rock. The boar gave one last shriek and shiver, then it moved no more. Artanis reined her mare to a stop, patting her sweaty shoulder and offering words of thanks, and the horse pranced about, nearly as pleased with herself as her mistress was. Thingol drew up alongside her, breathing as hard as she.

"Artanis Finarfiniel!" He cried with a broad smile. "Very well done indeed!" He reached out, offering her his hand and she grasped it, smiling back. "You do the house of Finwe proud! There is no doubt!"

"I should certainly hope so," Artanis replied, smiling back at the king, "for it was under my father and grandfather's tutelage that I learned to hunt. Yet it is my first time to fell a boar – indeed, my first time hunting one." Thingol laughed.

"Then I am all the more impressed, though not very surprised I must say, given your gumption."

She dismounted as the other riders arrived and pulled her spear from the boar before wiping the blade on the grass.

"Superb, Lady Artanis." Said Beleg. "I congratulate you!"

"My thanks Sir. From you there could be no more flattering compliment. But, certainly I could never have done it without your aid, and that of the prince." She bowed to Celeborn. He said nothing but she noted the look of admiration in his eyes and hope fluttered in her chest that perhaps not all was lost.

They hunted the rest of the morning but, aside from a few rabbits, they had not caught anything else of much significance by the time that they returned to Menegroth as dusk was dawning. There they picnicked upon the rabbits and the fox while they began to roast the pig over an open fire and the ladies spent the early hours of the evening relaxing on the lawn before the gates of the city while the men tended to the horses and fussed over the proper roasting of the pig like mother hens. By the time that the sky was pitch black, the boar was roasted through, the crispy skin crackling and popping, a savory, mouthwatering aroma permeating the air as the fat dripped on the fire. They gathered to sit on logs around the fire as more people joined them from Menegroth, including Melian, who seated herself beside her husband. Luthien, already a little bit tipsy, passed around cups and cold pitchers of ale before seating herself beside Artanis.

"Drink up before it gets warm!" She cried and a great cheer and the clinking of glasses was heard. Some of the hunters approached the roasting pig and began to cut off meat, passing it around the circle on trenchers, and Artanis and Luthien feasted happily upon the hot and tasty boar meat until they could eat no more and their fingers were burnt and greasy. Artanis could not resist licking them; she had never tasted anything more delicious.

Just then, Dairon, who had joined them from Menegroth, Galathil, and Beleg arose, beginning to sing a loud and pun filled song about Artanis's slaying of the boar. The lady herself rose and curtsied deeply in mockery of their ridiculous tune, enjoying the hubbub of conversation and the pleasant, festive atmosphere.

"Drink! Drink!" Luthien urged as Artanis downed her fourth glass of ale. "To your victory most noble!" The princess refilled their glasses and they drained them once more before she rose and excused herself saying, "I must go speak to mother!" What was comical in this statement Artanis could not discern but Luthien seemed to find something humorous about what she had said, for she headed off on feet that were now less than steady, laughing all the way. Artanis felt a bit lightheaded and reckless herself and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire upon her face and the hot, lazy summer air against her skin.

"May I?" She heard the deep cool voice from behind her, that voice that haunted her dreams, and felt her pulse quicken. She knew immediately who it was before she opened her eyes and she tensed a bit, wondering what it was that he had come to say.

"Of course," She said, gesturing more wildly than she had intended to the empty seat next to her due to a combination of nerves and alcohol.

"I was not sure whether you would ever welcome my presence again," he said softly so that the others would not hear, and Artanis felt a pang of guilt and sadness shoot through her hot as lightening. For she had regretted their argument almost as soon as it had finished and yet her pride had been too great to return to him and ask forgiveness.

But, as she had lain in her bed that day, tossing and turning while sleep evaded her, it had come to her mind that perhaps he had not been accusing her of anything after all and that he had only meant to help her in his own way. But, more than that, she had worried that she may have carelessly discarded any opportunity she may have had with him and it was not until that worry was present in her mind that she realized that she did desire him after all. In light of that understanding, every other challenge seemed surmountable. For who were Finrod and Maedhros to tell her what she could and couldn't do or, even, what secrets she could choose to keep or divulge? And perhaps Celeborn was right, perhaps she had not given him due credit, it was his choice, not hers, whether or not he wished to court her, just as it was her choice, and not her family's, whether or not she would court him.

"My Lord," she said, feeling quite brave all of a sudden as she turned to meet his gaze, "I am sorry for the harsh words that passed between us the last time that we spoke. I grew frightened and in my fright I was less than courteous to you, I -"

"Nay!" He interrupted her, as though the words had lain in wait in his mind and now that the time had come to divulge them they spilled forth. "It is I who should apologize, for you came to me with a heavy heart and I only increased that burden. I sought to solve all of your problems for you and it did not occur to me until later that perhaps you were only seeking a compassionate ear."

"No, no! Think nothing of it!" She exclaimed. "Consider it all forgiven and forgotten! But, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"Of course!" He said. "it is already done."

There was a certain tension now between them for it seemed as though the final obstacle had been surmounted and the path cleared but now they were each afraid to tread it. "Might I offer you more ale?" Celeborn asked, breaking the long silence almost frantically, and Artanis nodded more vigorously than was usual.

"Yes, yes," she said, holding out her cup and she knew not whether it was because her hand was shaking or his was, but only half of the ale that he poured managed to make its way into her glass and the rest spilled on the ground. It did, however, seem to alleviate the tension between them and they laughed.

"I am not drunk! I swear it!" Celeborn exclaimed, as he filled his own cup and the two of them quaffed deeply.

"How very dull!" She exclaimed, laughing, and it seemed that at her joke the better part of his boldness returned.

"You said you spoke out of fear," he said, quirking a silver brow at her. "Tell me Lady, what was it that had you frightened? For I find it difficult to imagine that you could be frightened of anything."

"You, your Royal Highness," she said, laughing. _Perhaps I am a bit drunk,_ she thought to herself with a smile.

"Aha," Celeborn grinned with a quirk of his eyebrow, "I must admit, I have found that many a young lady is intimidated by a handsome lad. But fear not, Galadriel, I am not so very dangerous."

"You arrogant fool!" She laughed, prodding his side with her elbow. "It isn't that at all! It is that frightful look you give me on occassion! Sometimes I am not sure if, if you mean to kill me or …" She paused. _I am too drunk and now I have dug myself a pit to fall into,_ she thought. But no, not a pit, an opportunity, if she were brave enough to say it. She took a deep breath "to kill me or to make love to me," her words nearly caught in her throat as his eyes slid over to meet hers, intrigued, and she swallowed hard. Well it was out now and she could not take it back. The light-hearted humor had evaporated from them, leaving behind on his face that same raw look and grin of which she had just spoken.

"I assure you," he said quietly, his voice husky, "It is not the former." They sat in baited silence, their gazes locked. It seemed that the world around them had gone completely still or else disappeared entirely and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest and took another drink of her ale, finishing the glass, for she needed that courage for what she wanted to say next.

"And the latter?" She asked boldly, for when she looked into his eyes, which even now bore a glint that struck her with some strange and thrilling sensation, and saw the hint of a grin that played about his lips, thicker than those of a Noldo, she felt as if he was demanding, requiring something of her, as if he wished her to rise to challenge him as if in battle, warrior to warrior. And suddenly it struck her all at once, not that she had romantic feelings for Celeborn, for she been aware of this for a while now, but instead by the reason that courtship had heretofore seemed irksome to her: it had made her feel intolerably weak. Yet, when Celeborn looked at her now she could feel the power growing within her like the swell of a river about to flood.

The silver-haired prince shifted in his seat, thinking, and presently he asked her, "would you speak of that?"

And perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was that strange courage that he seemed to ever draw forth from her, but she nodded confidently and said, "yes, I would."

"Then shall we quit this place?" he asked her.

Artanis felt her pulse quicken, for she knew not the marriage customs of the Sindar and she wondered if by that he meant to ask her if she would lie with him and so she said, "and where will we go?" But even if he told her that he wished to take her to his bed she wondered that she might agree. Indeed, she almost hoped for it. Long had they been carefully toeing the tightrope between friends and lovers. Yet her heart did not quake or tremble, but beat within her chest like a mighty drum and she felt its power even down to her fingertips, her entire body echoing with its rhythm, and wondered that she had grown so bold and fearless in the face of love.

And Celeborn laughed softly, the grin on his face indicating that he found himself pleased by her and this in turn pleased Artanis for he had not been put off by her boldness as many of the princes of the Noldor had, but welcomed it. "Only to the willows there," he said, pointing at a stand of trees not so very far away, but far enough as to be private. "For if we would speak of that then I wish to be alone with you, if you will allow it. Yet that is close enough that these here will not wonder if we have been lost."

"Then fill my cup," she said, "and I shall go with you." He did as she bid him, spilling not a drop, for this time he had the security of knowing his intentions. Then he rose, offering her his arm and side by side they walked the distance to the willow grove. The grass there was lush and verdant, the long, slender branches of the willow, shining as if they had been rubbed with silver, trailed in the gentle streams that ran there as the wind rustled gently in the leaves through which moonlight softly filtered. It was a beautiful place and peaceful, though touched by a primordial quality that made it both strange and majestic.

"Are you not afraid to walk alone in the forest at night with a dark elf by your side?" He asked her, eyes playful, as they made their way through the ferns and beneath the canopy of willow branches.

"Should I have cause to be Celeborn?" She teased him in return, unafraid to call him by his name now that there were no others around to bear witness. "Perhaps it is you who ought to fear me. After all, am I not a Noldo, one of the 'sorcerous elves' as your people say?"

"There are those among your people who would say that you have followed me now only because I have bewitched you with my dark enchantments," he said and she felt as though his eyes might burn clear through her.

"And have you?" She asked, a grin playing about her lips.

"I do not well understand what your people mean when they use the words 'bewitch' or 'enchant' but if by it they intend to say that I can show you things to inspire the heart then yes, that I can do. Is that what you desire?" And Artanis could feel her heart pounding in anticipation.

"Yes," she said, the word dropping from her lips, seemingly without thought, or else born of a question so long contemplated that the answer was already known to her. And, nearly as soon as the word had traversed the path of her lips did the world seem to swell around her, the stars drawing so close that it looked as though she might be able to pluck them from the sky and in the air the whispers of a thousand birds and beasts and rivers and trees, beneath her feet the earth moved as though it too had a heart, primeval, pulsating, pumping life throughout all of Arda. And this pulsing energy forced trees up through the ground, and splintered rocks as though they were fragile as glass, and compelled water to flow forth into rivers and streams as though a wellspring of life lay at the very center of the earth and was forcing its way out in an inexorable deluge.

Artanis found her heart racing, her breath coming in deep gasps as her lips parted, gingerly, tentatively, ever so slightly in silent ecstasy, eyes shining with a luster as though shot through with stars, body trembling in fragile bliss until at last the power ebbed like the tide at dawn, leaving her floating in its wake. She seemed to come to then, though whether she dreamed to wake or woke to a dream she could not tell for she felt as though in that very moment he had shown her all of Arda itself at its birth, and all of this he had done without her skin having known the touch of his hand.

He grinned, watching her with those eyes of his, eyes filled with a darkness that, as ever, intrigued her, that drew her to him like a moth to a flame, enticing her even as unto her own sweet destruction. A strange sort of enchantment it had been, wild and unrestrained: as he was. And now that she had but tasted of it once, she wanted nothing more than to taste of it again and again until she had supped full, for she found herself consumed by an insatiable hunger and she knew not which would devour her first: his desire or her own. He drew close to her then, so close that she thought he might kiss her, and, trembling in anticipation, feeling as if she were compelled to ask the question, as if she could no longer resist, said: "What is it that you desire of me, Celeborn?"

He reached out and, without asking, took the glass she held, drinking of the heady wine therein before pressing the cup to her lips where the rim of it was still warm from his mouth, and as she drank he gave reply, saying only: "Everything, Galadriel." The words hung in the silence between them.

Then did she reach out, finishing an action begun long ago but left incomplete, and threaded between her fingers a lock of his hair, pure silver, brilliant as moonlight, and it glimmered in her hand as though she had caught a handful of stars betwixt her fingers. She felt her breath catch in her throat, for well was it said amongst the eldar that to touch the hair of another was among the most intimate of acts. Her eyes flickered up to meet his and she saw that he stood, breathless in awe of her, his eyes filled with great desire and affection, just as she had wished for since that night that she had danced before the court, and she did not doubt that her eyes were filled with much of the same, for she was in awe of him as well, her beautiful and wise Sindarin lover.

And, what was more, though she searched her heart, she found that there was no fear there at all any longer. For with Celeborn 'everything' did not mean a cage, or a prison, chains and clipped wings, and to be closeted away or exiled to loneliness as Nerdanel had been, as her own mother. No, when Celeborn said 'everything' he meant freedom, a life without fear, a life lived without shame, filled with love and happiness and great joy, for he himself had told her that actions speak more truth than words, and it was his actions that spoke the truth of him to her heart. No longer was she afraid to say what she felt, what he could undoubtedly read in her eyes.

"If it is 'everything' that you wish, Celeborn, then take it," she whispered, "for it is yours." Then did the cup tumble from her hands as into his he drew her, flesh upon flesh, heat upon heat, sweat upon sweat, the taste of bitter wine mingling as he kissed her as though he wished to make her forget the taste of air and in that kiss thereby seal them one to the other.


	8. Strangers In a Strange Land

  
**Strangers In a Strange Land**

In Cavern's Shade: 8th Chapter

*****

"One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse."  
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness."  
*****  


Author's note: Just to be clear, the LACE essay does apply to this story so the word "lover" in the context of this story implies courtship with the expression of sexuality within the context of the relationship but that sexuality does not go so far as penetrative sex. As specified in the LACE essay, marriage for elves is of the body so in this story "marriage" or "bond" equates to sex. Therefore, if an elf says they are not married or they are not bonded that means they have not had sex though they may have engaged in other sexual expressions of love within the courtship. Any questions about this or why I have made these choices please comment and I will reply with an explanation. Thank you!

*****

It was in the nights that Doriath came alive. Lamps of all colors were lit in the great hall, reflecting their prismatic light about the midnight forest, and nocturnal flowers bloomed in all of their evening glory. The deer with their spotted fawns lay down to rest beneath the trees while the nightingales awoke above them, their melodic songs ringing throughout the endless caverns like a chorus of bells. Beneath the trees the population of Menegroth, both elven and animal wandered about, feasting, meeting with friends, seeking out merchants. The sky-like ceiling above twinkled with the brightness of stars and even one who had never entered the halls of the hidden kingdom would feel at home here amidst the soft light and gentle hubbub of conversation.

Thingol sat on a balcony crafted about the trunk of one of the great stone trees in the hall surveying his palace from atop velvet cushions. His ears perked at the sound of a fiddle, the musician running the bow across the strings at random, warming up. The cacophony of notes caused Melian's words to run through his mind once again, threatening to rob him of his momentary happiness: 'She carries a dark secret.' It was easy to spot that golden head as he looked down, wayward grandchild of his friend that one was. He saw her call out and an equally discernable silver head approached, speaking to her briefly before moving away again. Consternation creased Thingol's brow and, momentarily, he heard footsteps coming up the silver staircase and turned to see Celeborn. His ire of a moment earlier that he had planned to direct at the young elf was quickly forgotten when he saw that he was carrying two goblets and a tall frosty pitcher of freshly brewed ale.

"Uncle, I thought I might find you here." Celeborn smiled, toasting him with the empty goblets before sitting beside him. "May I join you?"

"Seeing as you have already done so I cannot refuse you now can I?" Thingol replied with a smile.

"You could," Celeborn said cheekily, "only it would be quite rude of you and I should be very put out."

"Semantics," Thingol grumbled. "Your aunt will be wroth with you for feeding my habits." He took one of the goblets nevertheless and held it out as Celeborn poured. "I have grown fat since the Battle of Beleriand." The ale was cold, perfectly so, and the foam bubbled against his lips as he drank it down.

"What Auntie does not know cannot hurt her now can it?" Celeborn grinned with mischief.

"Consider briefly, the flaw in the statement 'what Melian does not know' Celeborn." Thingol rolled his eyes. "And to think that you are my chief counselor."

"You know, she has a point. You really were a great deal thinner at the Battle of Beleriand," Celeborn shot back. Thingol jokingly gave him a glare that could have killed a warg and his nephew laughed. "You ought to be more grateful to me, uncle, for having delivered this ale safely to you. It was very nearly stolen as I was on my way here."

"So I saw," Thingol replied. "What do you think of her Celeborn?" His eyes returned once more to the revelers as he slowly sipped from his glass of ale.

"Of Artanis?" Celeborn asked with a wry grin, and he struggled to suppress the joy that threatened to blatantly parade across his face, for the Noldorin lady had now for several months been a near permanent occupant of his chambers and many a night had they shared the same bed. Yet, though they had been careful to be as discreet as they could, and though none knew better how to avoid Thingol's keen eye than Celeborn, he worried that his uncle might have found out and now meant to express disapproval. For, though such arrangements were not uncommon amongst Sindarin couples, and though by law Celeborn knew that he needed the King's approval only for a marriage, Artanis was a princess, a Noldorin princess at that, and thus their courtship would likely face closer scrutiny than most. Besides, though Thingol considered the children of Finarfin to be his friends, it was no great secret that he was still irked by their refusal to speak plainly of whatever shadow lay upon them.

"Of course," Thingol replied, "I am not so blind as you think, nephew. I have seen the way that you look at her and I saw you, several months ago after the hunt, go off in the forest together and you did not rejoin the festivities." the king said pointedly, his brow furrowing. "Indeed, it was not until the following evening that I saw either of you. I know the thoughts that go through the minds of young men, Celeborn." The king pointed a stern finger at his nephew. "Do not forget that I too was once alone in the forest with an extraordinarily pretty girl."

Celeborn considered how best to answer, for he could not quite discern whether Thingol was angry with him or not, and so he remained silent for a while. "You have no opinion then?" Thingol pushed, laughing, and raising his eyebrows. "Or is it merely an opinion that you do not wish to speak? Come, Celeborn, I have never known you to hold your tongue." Celeborn raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of his ale. His uncle was right, he had never been one to hold his tongue and he would not now. There was no good in keeping secrets and, moreover there was no shame in what they had done.

"I have taken her as my lover," Celeborn said, and despite his slight concern over what the king would say, he could not suppress a grin at the sound of Thingol choking on his ale.

"Well," the King said after an extraordinarily pregnant pause. "You have been honest with me so I cannot fault you for that. Though I suppose I should not be surprised at all given your character, indeed, I rather find myself somewhat impressed that you have managed to snare a lady so famous for spurning her suitors."

"It was you who first suggested the match, if I recall correctly," Celeborn said. "'A rare beauty with a keen mind' were your exact words I believe."

"And you scoffed at the notion as I recall," Thingol said, raising an eyebrow and sipping from his cup.

"You are not upset?" Celeborn asked, curious, for the king had responded with a great deal more levity than he had expected. Indeed, he had rather expected that Thingol would become inflamed with anger.

"You have been honest with me and so I will be honest with you. I am not pleased, though I cannot say that I am displeased either. Long did I notice that you took a particular interest in Lady Artanis and yet I said little of it to you save for a few warnings, for I thought that it was your business and not mine. Yet I was worried, and I worry still for as we have discussed before, there is some darkness that hangs over the Noldor, even over the children of Finarfin."

"That I am aware of," Celeborn replied, perhaps a bit more hastily than he had meant to, and Thingol had noticed.

"I see that it worries you as well," the king said quietly, taking a sip from his cup.

"You are the one who agreed to an alliance with Finrod. Does my relationship with her not further that alliance?" And still Celeborn's quick mouth betrayed his own insecurities, for Thingol knew his nephew well and Celeborn would not have stooped so low as to seek to curry political favor if the same concerns were not already eating away at him.

"Does it never occur to you, Celeborn," Thingol retorted, angered now, "that my concern may not be that of a King for a prince, but that of a father for his son? Do you think that I do not know that you love this girl? Perhaps you have not spoken those words to her yet but they are plainly writ across your face. And what of her? Do you think that this is some light dalliance for Artanis? Even I, who do not speak with her often, can assure you that it is not. If I object to your union it is only because I would hate to see both of your hearts crushed by forces outside of your control. These are difficult times and I do not know yet what decisions will be required of me, or of you, or of her for that matter."

"I am sorry Uncle," Celeborn said, duly chastised. "My emotions were raised and I merely sought to defend myself, little thinking of your own motivations."

"That is just the problem, Celeborn: you did not think," Thingol scolded him.

"Uncle…" the prince began, considering how best to couch what he wanted to say. "I hope that you do not think that I have no concerns myself. I do not like this business the Feanorians have of coming in and claiming this land, of ignoring your counsel and your decrees. Even Finrod, who means well, who is my dear friend, occasionally oversteps his bounds. We are treated as a second-class people in our own land and every day I feel as if the noose closes about our necks and the Feanorians agitate Melkor, spurring him into action. I certainly do not like that Artanis and Finrod see it as necessary to conceal the true events of their migration from us.

Yet, it seems to me that there is nothing to be gained by ignorance. The Noldor came here ignorant of us and it served no purpose but to make a mess of things. There is much to be said for the fact that Finrod and Artanis sought to learn about us, to assimilate in a way while so many others did not. We should not turn our allies against us nor turn our backs to them. If they can learn from us then we can learn from them as well.

Moreover, I cannot help but think that we must look at this situation through the lens of practicality. It is unrealistic to think that the Noldor will simply go away, they are a fact of our world now and what good does it do us to turn our back on this world? It is only by seeing things as they actually are that we have any hope of progress or any chance of rebuilding this kingdom. If that is so, then why should I hesitate with Artanis? In time she will tell us what we wish to know. I would like to believe that I can trust her."

"Because you are young," Thingol said. He laughed abruptly and his ire seemed to pass like a cloud in the spring sky. "And I am glad for it. As of late I find myself feeling as though I am merely a king trying to keep his kingdom on the map for as long as possible, delaying the inevitable." Despite the smile on the King's face, there was certain melancholy tone to his voice.

"Uncle…" Celeborn began, not entirely sure what he was feeling, but Thingol interrupted him.

"I do hope you stay that way – young." The King laughed, turning to his nephew with a smile, and Celeborn knew that the conversation had come to an end. "Do not become like me – old and jaded and overly critical." Silence hung between them before it was broken by the rattling of the silver steps.

"Hey! Ho! Celeborn's beat us to it!" In came the jovial Galathil and his somewhat less jovial cousin, Oropher. Celeborn silently thanked the Valar for his brother, who could smooth over any situation.

"Little brother!" He greeted Galathil. His dark-haired brother threw himself down beside him while Oropher set a second pitcher of ale and three goblets down. "Hello Oropher." His cousin waved to him in reply.

"What do you want?" Thingol asked Galathil suspiciously, though he could not quite keep the smile from his face.

"What do I… want?" Galathil spluttered, touching a hand to his chest in feigned shock. "Why nothing of course, save to spend time with my favorite uncle, whom I love and adore." But Celeborn could tell from the nervous look that Oropher was only just barely masking that they had indeed caused some sort of trouble. "Honestly, Celeborn," Galathil addressed his brother. "Does he ever ask you these sorts of distrustful questions?" Celeborn merely snorted in laughter. Galathil was always a spectacle when he was attempting to hide evidence of his wrongdoing. "Really uncle," Galathil continued, "how many trade deals have nearly gone awry because my older brother cannot keep his loud, judgmental mouth to himself?"

"Celeborn," said Thingol, "offends people to their faces, where all is laid out plainly for everyone to see and can be immediately dealt with. You, Galathil, and you Oropher, do not think I have forgotten about you," Thingol gave Oropher a pointed look, causing the flaxen-haired Sinda to shrink back, "you work your mischief in secret, where none may see, then it rears its ugly head and the terrible fruits of your labor are brought forth when it is most inconvenient and causes the greatest amount of trouble."

"Yes Galathil, you are terribly inconvenient," Celeborn chimed in.

"You wipe that smile off your face Celeborn before I wipe it off for you." Galathil shot back.

"What have you done? Oropher?" Thingol's searing gaze settled upon Celeborn and Galathil's cousin, who was far less adept at keeping secrets from his uncle.

"Nnn..n..n..n..nothing uncle." Oropher stammered, his face blushing as red as a forest rose. Just then the steps rattled once more and Saeros appeared, looking quite cross indeed, and whispered something in Thingol's ear.

"Galathil, Oropher, come with me." Thingol commanded icily, descending the stairs after Saeros. The two young elves exchanged panicked looks.

"Oh you're not sorry at all, you're just upset that you've been caught." Celeborn laughed.

"As if you're so innocent! He doesn't know even half of the mischief that you've worked," Galathil chided his older brother. "I know it was you that dumped water on those ladies in the white dresses at the summer festival five years ago."

"I'm not silly enough to get caught," Celeborn said with a great deal of satisfaction. "What did you do anyway?"

"The nurses were bathing in those secluded shallows down by the Sirion and we stole their dresses!" Oropher whispered gleefully before the two stumbled down the stairs after Thingol. Celeborn laughed and finished off the ale.

*****

Celeborn, thought Finrod, was an enigma. He could at the same time, be equally as serious as he was jovial, equally as kind as he was merciless. Even now, nearly five years after their initial arrival in Menegroth, he was familiar with Celeborn's behavior, with the sort of things he said, with the dangerous nature that lurked just beneath the surface, and the Sinda still seemed to utterly confound him at times. He could see why his sister found him irresistible; she could never leave any mystery unsolved. Yet Finrod liked Celeborn very much and held him in high regard; you always knew where you stood with him. And Finrod felt deeply indebted to him for all he had taught him, for it had certainly aided him greatly in the building of Nargothrond, a project yet unfinished.

He smiled, reviewing his upcoming plans for his city in his mind, wondering if the marble for the columns would be ready upon his return. Finrod was the type of person who, once he started a project, was loath to rest until it was complete, and yet it was good, he mused, to visit with friends in Doriath once more. He pushed the thoughts of Nargothrond from his mind, instead turning to look at Celeborn, who was at this moment reclining against the bole of the tree. Their troop of five wardens sat in the high limbs, some were singing softly but most were quiet, resting, for they had come many leagues that day and Celeborn had pushed them hard, making with all speed for Menegroth as they had been in their outpost in the woods for nearly two months.

The Prince was relaxing lazily like a great forest cat, content to bask in the shade. But Finrod knew that, in an instant and without any warning, that cat could leap from its royal cushion and maul a man, tearing him limb from limb. Perhaps that was his most lasting impression of the Sindarin prince, usually he was a deeply wise, quiet, elf content to wander peacefully beneath the trees, he could become vicious and deadly in the matter of a moment. The Sindar, it seemed, were far more mercurial in temperament than the Noldor. He felt a slight shiver trace its way down his spine. Truthfully, he was a bit frightened of Celeborn.

If at first he had been a bit put off by the Sinda's aggression, he was now accustomed to it, though not any less afraid of it. For, when he was not at Nargothrond, he had spent some months of the past five years wandering through the outskirts of Beleriand with the prince and his wardens and he had seen many things that he could never have imagined. The kinslaying had been a tragedy, but never had he seen the magnitude of brutality that the elves of Beleriand lived in constant balance with. To think that they lived always in danger of such things as he had seen … he was not surprised that they could be so deadly, more naturalistic.

He had learned the art of war, as practiced in these lands, by Celeborn's side. And he had seen many creatures he had never dreamed of: the great hulking trolls, the swift and powerful wargs, but worst of all the black and deformed orcs, shadows of the elves that they had once been. He had watched the silver flashing of Celeborn's axe as it cleaved the stone-like appendages of trolls from their hideous bodies. He had heard the heavy thud of the prince's arrow as it found purchase in the neck of an orc and the sick gushing squelch as Celeborn tore his deadly barb from the orc's windpipe, ripping out its throat.

Finrod had been sick during this first battle, traumatized by the death around him. And Celeborn had looked at him as if he were a child, saying, "You too will grow accustomed to it." And he had. At first he had thought that Celeborn took pride in his killing. For the Sinda did not bother to wipe the blood from his body and, only as an afterthought, wiped the gore of his enemies' intestines from his form. He had even, on occasion, seen him use the blood of his kills to paint strange characters upon his skin. But the most sobering of all was that Celeborn seemed not at all bothered by the violence. He did not grieve after battle, nor speak nor sing of it. His eyes did not change when he killed; he was untroubled by it. And there were no ceremonies or rituals that were performed either before or after the killing, as the Noldor would doubtlessly have done. They came. They killed. They kept going. It had taken him several years to realize that Celeborn did not take pride in killing nor did he enjoy it. To him, it was merely a fact of life, the same as eating or breathing.

Finrod pondered all of this as his hands played with the wood of the tree beneath him. He heard the soft hum of a flute and glanced up, seeing that Celeborn had produced a small pipe and was fiddling around with it, not playing any sort of song but only experimenting with notes. The cacophany was suiting to this earth, thought Finrod, the story of its marred creation coming to mind. The Noldo's fingers traced the rough bark, dipping into crevices and admiring the twisting sinews of the wood. He heard a sudden laugh from Celeborn and the flute emitted a sharp unplanned note. Finrod looked up, surprised. It was not often that Celeborn laughed.

"You are tickling the tree." The Sinda said with a grin. "It is quite giddy at the moment."

"Oh?" Finrod said with a laugh, "If I have offended it then I beg pardon."

"It isn't offended. It's rather fond of you in fact." Celeborn said with a glimmer in his green eyes. Sometimes, Finrod thought, he fancied he could almost hear the soft murmuring of the trees, almost feel the lifeblood within them and believed that they did indeed hold long slow conversations with the Prince of Doriath. At other times he resolutely believed that Celeborn was yanking his chain, so to speak.

"Tell me, Celeborn," began Finrod, voicing a question that he had held in his mind for a very long time, "I have heard much praise of your bow and heard it spoken of as a great and mystical weapon. Never have I seen you miss a shot. Tell me then, from whence comes that magnificent weapon."

Celeborn quirked one silver brow up, skeptically. "It is not because of my bow that I do not miss a shot. It is because of my skill." His face was straight but, again, Finrod could not tell whether he was jesting or not. "Here," The elf held the unstrung bow out to the Noldo, "string it."

Finrod took the bow and bent the wood, stretching the twine, attempting to string the weapon. But, try as his might, his arms shook and he could not make the ends meet. After several fruitless minutes he sighed and handed the bow back to Celeborn. The silver lord grinned and, with effortless ease, strung the mighty bow. Finrod sighed, defeated, not understanding what the Prince had meant to communicate. Celeborn saw it register in the Noldo's eyes. "You do not understand." He said, not a question, a statement. Finrod shook his head. "In time." Celeborn replied, ever abstract, like the trees he claimed to converse with. "Do not trouble yourself over it. It is nothing so magnificent as Beleg's bow."

Suddenly he froze, tensing, whatever he had meant to say forgotten as the tips of his ears twitched slightly, and Finrod knew that he had heard something. The march wardens too, had suddenly become alert. Finrod had still not attained their speed in perceiving threats. Wordlessly, Celeborn held out a hand to still him, signaling that none of them should move. They waited in silence for the span of ten minutes and then he saw them approaching, a small band of orcs, their leader mounted on a warg, and with them several wolves of the large gray variety. Finrod felt his stomach turn as he saw that the captain wore a simple mithril circlet and two of the orcs were clothed in what looked as though it had once been elvish clothing, a gray cape, a well crafted leather belt. He looked to his right and saw that Celeborn had noiselessly nocked a long white-fletched arrow on the string of his bow, motioning for the others to do the same.

Finrod silently pulled back the string of his own bow as he felt the pre-battle nervousness flutter through his stomach. But this was normal, he had learned, even Celeborn had confided in him that he often felt the same, though he did not show it. Years of the Prince's careful training by example and instruction had sharpened Finrod's senses to the ways of fighting in this land. Now he fought and killed as well as any of them, except Celeborn, Mablung, Beleg, and Thingol himself. And he had seen the woodland lord watching him, silently noting when he displayed Noldorin styles and techniques, sometimes melding or even outright adopting them into his own fashion of fighting, just as Finrod had adopted many of the Sindarin techniques, training Nargothrond's wardens in the style of Doriath's.

Silently, they crouched, waiting in the treetops. Still, Celeborn had them hold, tracking the warg of the leader. The silver head nodded in his direction and Finrod knew that he wanted him to take him out. With the tip of his arrow he tracked the shaved skull of the large orc. The creatures moved across the earth and it seemed to shrink and grow discontent at their unfriendly touch. He could hear their harsh breathing and the sputtering of saliva between their chipped yellow teeth. The leader was passing directly below him and Celeborn nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Noldoring and Sindarin princes let their arrows fly at the same second and with a sharp thwack they slammed home, straight down through the center of the the warg and orc captain's heads, splitting them like fresh gristly melons.

Panic broke out as the remaining twelve orcs scurried about, simultaneously attempting to avoid the arrows that flew at them and locate their attackers. The wardens' arrows felled an additional five orcs, meaning that every arrow had found its target. At Celeborn's piercing whistle the elves hung their bows over their backs and dropped from the trees.

Celeborn took his great battle axe in hand and so quickly did he move that he seemed to be only a flash as he carved his way through orc flesh. Finrod unsheathed his sword, for he preferred it to the Moriquendi axes, and drove it into the nearest orc, kicking it off his blade before turning and beheading another. And then they were finished. Their five wardens stood, eyes alert, axes dripping with black orcish blood. They bent to wipe them and Celeborn kicked over the body of the orc leader, a slight sneer on his lips as he tore the mithril circlet from its broken head. The other elves divested the dead bodies of any elvish articles, evidence that these had recently feasted on one of their kin.

"Green elves, probably." Celeborn whispered to the Noldor prince. But his eyes were not sad, he had seen this far too often. Finrod knew that, when they returned, they would send the articles to the green elf chieftains until they could be identified. It was not his first time to see this either. The elves were skinning the three gray wolves. "These," Celeborn said, tearing the pelt from a wolf single-handedly, the sinew of his muscles flexing beneath the skin of his arm, "had no part in feasting on elf flesh, but they would soon have feasted on the orcs, or so they planned to." He held the great hide out to Finrod. "A mantel for your sister perhaps? It will be cold soon. We mustn't be wasteful." Finrod took the skin from the Sindar and tied it to his cape. Though he lived in Nargothrond, he dressed in the fashion of Celeborn and the wardens now, it being very suitable and practical to the land.

The elves leapt into the trees again and made their way towards Menegroth. Why should Celeborn care whether or not Artanis had a fur cape? Finrod felt slightly irked by Celeborn's tone when speaking of his sister. When he had left Menegroth the two had hardly been friends, now that he had returned to pay a visit he found that things were not as he had left them. He knew not what had passed between Celeborn and Artanis in his absence but he had his suspicions, fueled by the rumors that flitted about the capital of Doriath like moths. And he had reason to suspect that these were true, for on a time he had gone to Artanis's chambers during the day, when the Sindar usually slept, and he had not found her there, nor could he find her anywhere, nor had he been able to find a single one of her servants who would divulge her location, though he was certain that some of them knew. And at those times Celeborn was also nowhere to be found. Yet, most of all, it was their eyes that betrayed them, not only the stolen glances they directed at each other when they thought that no one was looking, but the mirth and joy that resided within their depths now. Artanis seemed to float rather than walk lately, and Celeborn had grown even cockier still, a feat that Finrod would hardly have believed possible. His heart churned in anger at the thought of it.

He had asked his friend to watch after his sister and keep her safe, now there were some who said that he had taken her into his bed instead and Finrod was haunted by the nagging, persistent thought that Celeborn had betrayed his trust. Yet even as that thought surfaced in his mind he wondered why he felt that way, for if it had been any two other elves he would doubtlessly have said that they were adults and free to do as they wished. He had bound Celeborn to no oath, indeed, he had not forbidden him from seeking her hand at all, though he had warned him that she was likely to spurn any suitors.

Perhaps that was it, perhaps he was merely…surprised…that she accepted him. No, it was not that innocent he admitted to himself. He was surprised that she had taken a Moriquendi lover, for the words of the Feanorians still clouded his heart, though he knew that such talk of races was reprehensible. But that was only an excuse: to say that he opposed them because Celeborn was a Moriquendi and Artanis a Calaquendi and the races ought not to be mixed. What he was really concerned about, he knew, was that his sister would divulge their dark secret to Celeborn out of love, or in a moment of weakness, or at his urging. For Celeborn was no fool and, though he did not speak of it, well did he perceive that they kept some terrible secret.

But things were not that simple. For it was not only fear or anger that twisted Finrod's heart, but jealousy as well: jealousy that his sister, who had once been his closest companion and confidant, would forsake him for Celeborn's sake and jealousy that his sister had stolen his friend from him, for Celeborn was far closer to her now than to Finrod. Even as he admitted it to himself he was struck by how silly the thought was, for of course her relationship with Celeborn was of a different nature than that relationship that she had with her brothers or Celeborn's friendship with him. I should be happy, he thought, for Celeborn was his friend, whom he respected, should not it gladden his heart that the two of them had found love in each other? And what reason did he have to wish to deny her that? She was a grown woman, with the needs and desires of a grown woman, yet his heart was repulsed by the thought, for he could never think of her as anything other than his baby sister and the thought of…his friend, taking such liberties with her sickened him.

Or perhaps it sickened him because why should the two of them be happy when he and Amarie were sundered forever and eternity? It had all been well and good when she had been alone too, but now Artanis had Celeborn and Angrod was married as well. Aegnor was not involved with anyone, at least as far as he knew, but he had always been closer to Angrod than to Finrod and now Finrod felt himself bereft of companionship. 'I am an extraordinarily selfish elf,' the Lord of Nargothrond thought to himself. Yet even as he said it his anger with Celeborn grew hotter, for having made him feel this way.

By nightfall of the next day they had arrived at Menegroth and immediately they had stopped by the launderer's to deposit their filthy clothes. They stripped off in a small private antechamber there and Celeborn took a gray cloth offered to him by one of the young elves who worked in the laundries, thanking him. The elf bowed and offered one to Finrod as well, who took it.

"Join me in the baths?" Celeborn asked.

"Gladly." Finrod said, anticipating the tension releasing heat of the sulfur springs. Though baths were segregated by sex, it had still taken the Noldor a while to get used to the more open physical and sexual attitudes of the Sindar. It was not that they were lustful or bawdy, but rather that, being so very close with nature, they saw nakedness and matters of the flesh as a very natural part of life, something which they did not seek to cover up and of which they were not ashamed. Such topics were openly discussed and the physical form was not, in manner of dress, modestly covered.

Celeborn wrapped the cloth about his waist, twisting and tucking it so that it stayed and Finrod did the same. Once more thanking the launderers, the princes stepped out into the halls. Despite his anger earlier in the day, the Noldo felt a wry grin creeping its way across his face, amused as the Sinda stalked through the halls of the cavern, very nearly naked but not bothered by this in the slightest, just as confident as ever and quite possibly more so. Finrod himself still felt a slight twinge of embarrassment at being mostly unclothed and tended to keep his eyes on the ground when he was in such a state.

They entered the bathhouse, the atmosphere of which was thick with steam so that people seemed to move about in a great cloud of mist, and scrubbed the grime from themselves in the fountains there before entering the tubs of steaming hot mineral water. Finrod relaxed, laying his head back against the edge of the tub. It was soft with a gray violet moss that seemed to prefer the steamy heat of the baths to the out of doors, for he had only seen it here. Occasionally it sprouted small white flowers.

It was one of his favorite rooms in all of Menegroth, which was remarkable indeed, considering how many rooms in Menegroth that Finrod was fond of. He was in the process of building an exact replica at Nargothrond. The walls of the room were of silvery-white streaked limestone and throughout the spacious house were many tall thin pillars of translucent alabaster that came together at the tops to form pointed arches. The upper portions of the pillars, the arches, and the alabaster that connected these structures were ornately carved so that they looked like the finest and most intricate lace. No gemstones or painting was necessary, so fine and lovely was the craft of the masons.

The pools themselves were of limestone and the steaming murky spring water was pumped into them through an ingenious system of underground pipes, which Celeborn, who apparently also had a keen interest in architecture, had explained to him one day. Waters rich with minerals flowed deep in the ground, beneath the earth's crust, and were heated naturally by the earth. These pipes then channeled it up and into the pools through a sort of irrigation system. The water was constantly cycling in and out of the pools, constantly being renewed.

It was customary, before using these sorts of baths, to scrub oneself clean with soap using cool water from one of the many beautiful fountains around the bathhouse. Then one could enter the water without polluting it and making it unusable for others. Finrod had not known this the first time that he had bathed here. Celeborn had accompanied him, to show him how the baths were used and had had to grab a very startled Finrod by the arm as he had attempted to get into the bath without scrubbing first. As it had been only his second day in Menegroth, neither of them had yet acquired a working knowledge, or any knowledge really, of the other's language and so a very awkward explanation by means of gestures had ensued in which Finrod had been made to understand bathhouse etiquette.

He had also learned that teasing was quite common and taken in good humor. Most of it involved puns on the individual's name. Celeborn, for instance, was known for more than the silver hair that was on his head, something which he jovially acted quite proud of when the mood in the bathhouse became boisterous. Finrod had not been subjected to this treatment yet but he had been assured that, as everyone became more comfortable with him, his time too would come. It was not something he was particularly looking forward to … despite how much he did like the baths. He had asked Artanis one day, following his inquiries as to whether the architecture of the female baths was the same as that of the males, whether the she elves also practiced this sort of good-natured teasing and she had confirmed, with a pink blush spreading across her face, that they did. Becoming amused he had pushed her to tell him what they had said but she blanched and refused to say anything at all.

He glanced over at the floating cloud of silver in the water beside him. Celeborn had been submerged for the last several minutes. Momentarily, the Sinda emerged, red-faced, stretched out, and rested his head on the pool's edge in the same manner as Finrod.

"I am growing worried." He said. "Over recent years foul creatures have been coming closer and closer to the girdle. Their increased presence doubtlessly means they are growing less bold, less frightened of us, and if that is so then it must be because their own power and numbers are increasing."

"Do you fear that you will have to go forth and fight them?" Finrod asked.

"Nay," Celeborn replied, "my fear is that Melkor will find a way to break the girdle and they shall enter our realm, where we will have to do battle with them. Our concern is and always has been with keeping the location of this city well concealed, just as you seek to conceal Nargothrond."

"You would not rather, once and for all, eliminate Morgoth?" Finrod queried, his anger from the day before still boiling beneath his surface, spurring him to push perhaps more rudely than he would have otherwise. He had heard the answer to this question before but he had not spoken of this before with Celeborn and the topic greatly intrigued him, for it was, perhaps, the feature that he considered most backwards about the Moriquendi.

"Are you yourself not the king of a concealed city?" Celeborn asked with a quizzical look, and Finrod could tell that his friend had sensed his anger. "Why should we need to eliminate Morgoth, losing many lives in the process, when we may simply stay hidden, safe and happy? Indeed, it was the coming of Feanor's people that stirred him to wrath," Said Celeborn, closing his eyes once more as he relaxed against the side of the pool. "Besides, it would not be possible to do so, for we had not the strength to send aid to Cirdan after the Battle of Beleriand though we greatly desired to do so. It will be a while still before we can rebuild our forces to their former strength."

"While he and his minions slaughter the green elves, the Avari, your kin? Did you not say yourself that Doriath must adapt or die? Is that not what you argued when I proposed to found Nargothrond?" Finrod asked, growing increasingly agitated, for Celeborn's comment about his cousins provoking Morgoth had struck him ill and that was on top of his anger with his friend for not speaking openly with him about Artanis. Yet the ever-present pressure at the back of his mind pulled at his conscience. Who was he to question them when he himself had stood by and watched in horrified paralysis as the Feanorians slaughtered his mother's people? Only Artanis had had the courage to stand with the Teleri that day.

"Though we grieve for those lost to evil, the green elves, the Avari, and the others, they are sovereign people in their own right. They are not children whom we seek to sway to our ways. It is not for us to dictate to them what they should or should not do," Celeborn said, sitting up and opening his eyes, and somehow Finrod got the impression that Celeborn was speaking of more than just the green elves. "Nor have they ever asked us for aid, though they know they could easily do so. They know that they are welcome within the girdle of Melian at any time. They choose to remain without. It is their choice and they are aware of the consequences, both good and bad. If we choose to remain isolated then that is our matter and if they choose to live as they do then that is their matter. We here do not have this urge for conquering and dictating." Celeborn said, the beginnings of anger in his eyes.

But Finrod took offense at those words and replied, saying: "That sort of attitude would not sit well in Valinor for The Valar would put an end to Morgoth's works if things were in Valinor as they are here." It was a weak rebuttal and made weaker still for the fact that it was a front for what he really wished to say: if things were here as they were in Valinor you would be flogged for having the audacity to take my sister, the daughter of the high king, to your bed and there defile her, you a Moriquendi who has never seen the light.

"If things were in Valinor as they are here?" The Sinda immediately sat bolt upright. His previous calm had vanished and his green eyes blazed in piercing anger. His voice did not rise to a shout but rather lowered to a deathly quiet, as of the deep earth itself. His body seemed to hold within it a monumental power that he might unleash at any moment and Finrod truly saw why Celeborn was called dangerous. Try as he might, he could not escape his friend's gaze. It seemed as if the very room had disappeared from around them and that always would he be floating in this timeless spaceless place, held paralyzed by the prince's vicious glare.

"And do the Valar love those of Aman more than they love those here? Is Valinor so unmarred that it is worth more than this earth? I think not, for did not Morgoth himself dwell there ere he ever came to these lands? And would your own sister flee from her motherland, pursued by a terrible secret and unhappiness that haunts her if Valinor were so entirely perfect? So often do I hear the praise of the Valar, but I think that I must be forgiven if I can find no benevolence in lords who would let their people suffer and die here while they merely sit in their halls, where they are safe! For they have cast the evil out of Valinor but allow it to spread here, unabated! Blasphemous you may call me but if blasphemy is what you call the belief that the life of a Moriquendi," he spat the word, "is in every way equal to and as valuable as that of a Calaquendi, then gladly will I blaspheme!"

"I was born into darkness and long did I live, never knowing the day. The light of the trees, which is present in your eyes, does not dwell within my own. But it is far better, I think, to be a blind man but know what is true, than to see clearly with the eyes but not know what it is to be enlightened. Now get thee from me, Finrod son of Finarfin, for I am a prince just as surely as you and I will not listen to your ignorant words in my own palace! Do not forget in whose kingdom you dwell! Go now, for I am sick of looking at you!" Celeborn seethed, pointing at the door. Finrod stood and, with angry injured pride and a great deal of embarrassment, strode quickly from the room. Quiet had settled over the baths and no one who remained dared to look at the Prince of Doriath nor to enter into the pool in which he sat, alone, seething.

Upon returning to his apartments, the furious Finrod had encountered his sister and, throwing the wolf pelt at her, moved to go past her saying, "Behold Lady, a gift from Celeborn, Prince of Doriath." Her hand on his arm had stopped him.

"What has happened, brother, to make you so wroth?" She asked him, for it was rare indeed to see Finrod in such a temper.

"You ought to know, Nerwen!" He spat at her. "Indeed, I am surprised to find you here at all. I surmise that it is only because Celeborn is in the baths that you are not in his bed!"

Artanis released his arm from her grasp and stepped back as though he had physically struck her. "I am a grown elf and what I do is my own business, not yours brother," she said, her eyes unforgiving. And so I am entirely alone! The son of Finarfin thought. My sister will take Celeborn's side rather than mine! She has not even the grace to feign embarrassment at her transgressions!

"Then you do not deny it, that Celeborn of Doriath is your lover?" He asked her, and Artanis stared at him with cold, hard eyes.

"He is," she said proudly. Finrod shook his head in exasperation.

"Did you think that word would not reach me in Nargothrond: that you and he scarcely make any attempt to hide your actions, and no attempt at all to clear yourselves of the taint of that scandal?"

"What scandal? What taint? What have we to conceal?" Artanis asked, though it was truly more of a rebuke than a question. "This is not Tirion, brother! This is Doriath and in Doriath I shall follow the customs of the Doriathrim, not those of Tirion. What is more, one would think you had better things to worry over than what love may pass between a princess of the house of Finwe and a prince of the house of Elwe." Finrod grit his teeth and bit back the angry words, for his sister had echoed Celeborn's earlier sentiment, that he too was a prince, a prince of equal rank, and that this was, after all, his kingdom.

"I wish you were not involved in this business. Celeborn is more perceptive than is good for himself, or for any of us," he said, his anger having turned to a fear that caused him to pace about like a man pursued, for he understood clearly now that it was that very fear, and not any imagined offense that had caused him to speak so rashly to the Sindarin prince, fear that even though he had managed to secure Thingol's support, they might still be found out and then the anger of the Sindar would be very great indeed; he was sure of it.

"It was my choice to make, Finrod, not yours," she said and, at her words he left her, going to his rooms where he might be in peace and not lingering to argue with her any further.

And Artanis stood, her hands clenched in tight fists, trying to will herself not to be angry with her brother, for she knew that he meant well, though his methods were not those she would have chosen. But she could not put her anger away entirely, for it seemed that this same argument and all of its various manifestations would haunt the two of them until at last, like pus bleeding from a scab, it would bear its rotten fruit.

Yet now she could understand Finrod's earlier protestations, for she knew that they had been driven by his fear of losing Nargothrond before he had even had the chance to establish it: by a fear of never realizing that latent potential. It was that same unexpected fear that plagued her now for though she knew it would doubtlessly be her own undoing, she could no sooner keep herself from Celeborn than a moth could keep itself from the flames that would consume it and she worried that she would be torn from him ere their romance had played out, for the secret could not be kept forever, and thus the fear that had haunted her ere Celeborn had kissed her those years ago was reawakened in her heart, though it had slept for many years.


	9. The Widening Gyre

  
**The Widening Gyre**

In Cavern's Shade: 9th Chapter

*****

"The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold"

\- W.B. Yeats

*****

Artanis was a bit nervous and absentmindedly rubbed her hands on her white gown while she waited for Celeborn to return. Whatever he was about had kept him unusually late today, leaving her alone with the dark thoughts that had plagued her so much recently, and all the more so since Finrod and Celeborn had had their bitter argument. If the Sindar knew…if they only knew the truth of everything… She shrugged as if she could shake off the foreboding that sat so heavily upon her.

Though nearly a month had passed now since her lover's spat with her brother, she had not yet spoken to Celeborn of what had passed between him and Finrod, nor had he spoken to her of it, but she knew it plagued him all the same and he remained rather taciturn, even when he was alone with only her for company in his quarters. And, as much as she wished for peace between the two princes again before her brother returned to his own realm, she had to admit that even she was puzzled by the attitude that Finrod had affected.

She lay back into the familiar, lush bed as she waited for the Prince of Doriath, spinning her thoughts over and over in her mind, trying to distract herself from the web of darkness that seemed to have invaded her mind of late. Celeborn's rooms were beautiful and, whenever she was here, which was almost always in recent years, she felt certain that she was in the heart of the forest itself.

The large fireplace was stone with a mantle of roughly hewn oak above which was hung the mounted head of a great black bear. In the fireplace itself was a fire, burning brightly now, for it was cold this time of year. She shivered at the thought, for the winters of Doriath were bitterly cold, even for elves, and her gown was not so modest. Her arms were chilly to the touch, causing her to pull the bearskin blanket around herself more tightly. Before the fireplace was spread a great rug, the pelt of some enormous sable beast, though what exactly it was she had no idea. Celeborn had hunted them all himself she knew, with the King or with Beleg and Mablung.

Upon this lay long arrows which he had been fletching only last week, a task that he had abandoned some days ago, growing bored, and she had not yet gotten after him to clean them up. And there also was one of the low wooden tables which the Sindar were so fond of, surrounded by a great many cushions, some in better condition than others. There was a chaise as well and several mismatching chairs sitting about the outskirts of the rug. A pleasant room it was indeed, with a feeling of great warmth and welcome, but also an aura of privacy and contemplation, the only sound being the trickle of the brooks and streams that ran through the floor, and Artanis ever felt when she entered here that she had found refuge from the hustle and bustle of courtly life in this city, a place where she might be herself. Celeborn had encouraged her to make it her own as well, and bring whatever she liked there, for it still resembled a bachelor's room or a huntsman's keep, certainly one would never have guessed from the shabby furnishings that it was the apartment of the High Prince, but she rather liked it the way it was.

What the sparse and rustic furnishings lacked in appearance the room itself made up for. The ceiling was the same as in the rest of Menegroth, exquisitely beautiful, a perfect mirror of the sky. The stone here was carved in the likeness of trees like the rest of the palace but these were more finely crafted and of a superior quality than even those in Thingol's great hall. Their leaves, she had noted, seemed to be made of pure unblemished emeralds veined in silver and gold, rather than the green glass that made up the leaves of many of the trees in the public places. The light from the fireplace glinted off of them beautifully. But these were not the only trees in the room for there were many potted saplings as well. So fantastic was the design and stonework of Celeborn's quarters that, the first time she had visited this place, it had taken her a moment to realize that the saplings were not stone trees like the many pillars which held up the high ceilings and whose boughs formed canopies across the night sky of the roof. It was a bit like living in a greenhouse.

Artanis stood, leaving the bearskin blanket behind on the bed and moved to stand before the fireplace, bending to tend to a sapling of ash. Nearly as soon as she had done so, she heard the door open and shut, the faint sound of the footman and the valet's greetings, and her lover's purposeful strides. A smile flitted across her face, though she did not turn to greet him, and, while she still tended to the sapling, she heard him stop in the entryway, watching her no doubt; something that always pleased her for some reason.

As ever, Celeborn found himself entranced by Galadriel's beauty. Her skin almost appeared to be glowing in the warm light of the fire and her white gown was of a decidedly Sindarin cut that left her slender, beautiful arms bare as well as her shoulders, where shadows fell into the delicate curve of her neck and clavicle. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulder to tumble to the floor as she bent to touch the small, struggling sapling and he could not help but imagine how he later planned to wrap his hands in it.

He was amused by her antics and so he grinned a grin brimming with confidence and said: "I see that you cannot be left alone, even for a brief period of time, without meddling." At the sound of his cool voice Artanis stood slowly and turned to face him with arms crossed over her lovely chest and a warning look in her eyes, though she could not entirely keep the smile from her face, for she was well accustomed to his jokes by now.

"Ingrate." She whispered the word, enunciating every syllable as she narrowed her eyes. "I have healed your precious tree and this is the thanks that I receive."

"And you have not prepared my dinner," he said with a smirk. "What a pity."

"You evening might go better if you were to speak to me in a gentlemanly manner," she told him.

"If you would prefer," he said, speaking in the horridly florid courtly Quenya that Finrod had taught him, "I could speak to you as a Noldorin prince, in insipid euphemisms and useless metaphors." It managed at last to draw out a wholehearted laugh from her and, seeing the smile that now brightened her face he could not help but smile as well.

"Oh no, please don't," she insisted, still laughing. "It would sound so strange coming from you and you know how I despise that sort of language besides."

"As you wish," he said, grinning, for he did love making her laugh. "Come here." He held out his arms, which she went to eagerly, and enfolded her in his embrace.

"Court today?" She asked him, noticing the formality of his robes. "You are quite later than I had expected."

"Aye," he said, "a most unpleasant affair. Uncle deals with all the serious things himself and leaves me the cases of bakers squabbling over bread prices and the sort. But surely you do not wish to hear about such tedious things; tell me your thoughts. Weaving again today?"

"Nay," she said, releasing him from her embrace as he shrugged off his formal garments and threw himself down on the cushions. "Today was lembas, with Luthien."

"Ah, that is good," Celeborn said. "My cousin is too impulsive. You are a good influence on her."

"I?" Artanis laughed, as she sank down beside him, wrapping her arms about him and nestling her head against his shoulder. "I assure you dearest, I am no paragon of restraint!"

"Oropher too, is impulsive," Celeborn continued to muse. "All of my cousins are."

"They pale in comparison to mine, I assure you," Artanis said.

"I have not yet had the honor of meeting them," Celeborn replied, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

"Maglor isn't half bad," she laughed, "Maedhros has his good days as well. And what of you, Celeborn? Are you not also a bit impulsive?" How easily he had led her to the thrust of her argument and she felt him stiffen a bit at the realization that he had fallen into her snare.

"That," he said, a bit coldly, "had little to do with impulsivity."

"Is that so?" She asked him, stroking his hair to calm his temper.

Celeborn cleared his throat and sat in silence for a moment. He deeply regretted the harsh words that had passed between Finrod and himself, regretted the unrestrained anger that he had shown his friend, and yet he knew that he had said many things that were needful for Finrod to hear, though he could doubtlessly have found a better way of going about it. He traced the rim of his cup with his finger and Artanis waited in silence, offering no words to give him relief from his predicament.

"Then what was it about?" He heard her ask, the last question he wanted to hear, for

Finrod's words had bothered him for various reasons, not least of all because there was some truth in them, like a grain of sand in an oyster forming into a pearl, so did the words of his friend work upon his mind. Did you not say yourself that Doriath must adapt or die? Is that not what you argued when I proposed to found Nargothrond?

He found himself wanting to bite back at Galadriel with harsh words, saying; you would not understand! For how could she understand? The Noldor had come here so brash and defiant, so filled with righteous anger that Melkor had dared to kill their trees, ready and willing to burn their own lives away like ether to avenge that robbery, with little knowledge of or regard for the ramifications of war and death. Trees: Celeborn had not the luxury of shedding tears over lost trees when the price his people paid for Melkor's evil was their own lives.

That first morning – how could he ever forget it? He had been at the borders with his march wardens and all of a sudden the horizon had begun burning, like parchment lit in a fire, and a great gaseous ball of yellow flame had begun to slowly ascend the heavens. Yet she would think him a fool, childlike, ignorant if he were to confide in her that he had cried in terror at that moment, thinking that all of Arda had come to an end, that Illuvatar had forsaken them entirely. You are ignorant, Celeborn, an ignorant Moriquendi, the imagined words echoed in his mind. The Noldor had known of these goings on, but no message had come from the Valar for his people, no sign nor symbol to warn them that they were not all about to combust in a great ball of fire. Galadriel had come here with the sun, come with great ambitions and hopes, yet the coming of the sun and the arrival of the Noldor had ushered in an age of fear for the Sindar from the very first.

Even in the midst of the Battle of Beleriand, fighting by Thingol's side beneath the stars, he had never known such fear. For he had always been certain that Doriath would endure, always been sure that Thingol could never be struck down. But on that morning, on that morning when that massive, burning light had crested the horizon, everything that he had believed, every doctrine of life, every certainty he had maintained, had vanished and fled like ghosts at dawn, as ephemeral as plum blossoms in the spring. How could Finrod or Galadriel understand what such a thing was like, to have your entire world so utterly upended?

He became conscious of Galadriel taking his hand, holding it in her own, letting it rest in her lap while she leaned her golden head against her shoulder and suddenly his burden felt lighter. "Celeborn, I did not mean to imply that the fault was yours," she said softly. "Indeed, the greater part of the blame may rest upon Finrod's shoulders. As of late I find that I cannot easily understand his thoughts." He reached out to stroke her hair wrapping an arm about her shoulders.

"Whatever you may think, you are not alone," she said. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her head and they sat in silence, merely breathing, for a long while before he spoke again at last, not to reveal his innermost thoughts, for he hardly understood them himself and, moreover, they frightened him greatly. Then again, there was that part of him that could not trust her. She would not understand, his mind told him again.

And so he merely said, "I care for Finrod deeply."

"Then you ought to speak to him," Galadriel said, turning her face upwards to look into his eyes, "for you are his dear friend and he would be sorry indeed to lose you."

"And why can he not be the one to speak to me first?" Celeborn asked, for his heart was still deeply hurt by the angry words that Finrod had spoken.

"Perhaps he shall be," Galadriel said, "I do not know. It is not my place to speak in detail regarding the matter but you may well find that there are many things about Finrod that you have not yet discovered…for I have not spoken to him of it," she said, "but unless I am very much mistaken then I believe that my brother might regret his decision to leave Valinor." His heart is greatly troubled, even as yours is, and I would beg you not think that he meant all that he said for I assure you that he holds you in the highest esteem and your friendship means more to him than perhaps he realizes. I would not have strife between my brother and my lover," she said, "especially if, as I suspect, I am the cause of that discontent."

"No," Celeborn said, wondering if he had been selfish, "it is not your fault, nor the fault of anyone. I will speak with Finrod and see if I cannot make peace between us." Yet his heart was not as calm as his tone would have implied, for anger dwelt there still, but if it would make Galadriel's burden lighter then he would do what he could to ease it.

*****

"Venessiel," Celeborn said as he approached her, passing by the numerous desks of the money changers and accountants. The halls were filled with the sound of clinking coins and the gentle hubbub of conversation. The Minister of the Treasury looked up from the ledgers she had been perusing, placing her pen back in her inkpot. "I would appreciate it if you have a moment."

"I always have a moment for handsome gentlemen," the dark haired elfwoman said with a smile, folding her hands before her on the desk as Celeborn took a seat opposite her.

"It is…somewhat of a private matter," the prince said, lowering his voice to a near whisper, "just something I wish to know for personal interest."

"Oh?" Venessial raised a manicured brow in interest. "And this concerns me? How very interesting indeed."

"I assure you it is nothing of the sort," the prince waved his hand and laughed but there was a certain uncharacteristic nervousness to his mannerisms that made Venessiel take note, though she said nothing of it. "It is only a business matter that I wish to inquire about, nothing more. I would simply prefer if no one knew that I had spoken to you about it."

"Well then," Venessial leaned back in her chair now, eyeing him intently.

"Are there 10 million pieces of silver to spare in the defense budget? That is in funds allocated for armor, specifically."

"A spare 10 million?" Venessiel laughed, "No, of course not. The entire budget has been allocated already." She reached for a leather bound ledger and flipped it open, paging through it. Celeborn could see her lips moving as she worked the calculations over in her mind. "The account for the armory contains only 4.5 million. At best there could be 6 million," she said. "That figure comprises the remaining budget allocated for armor and assumes that any remaining money allocated for other purposes would channeled out of their accounts and into armor instead."

"And if money could be moved there from other sectors besides defense, the Ministry of the Interior perhaps, Saeros has maintained a surplus this year I know, what then?" Venessiel sighed and looked through her books again.

"That is possible," she said, looking at Celeborn with a perplexed expression, "though certainly not advisable. You would need the king's mandate to achieve such a thing and he will never grant it."

"No, no, that is not what I wish," Celeborn said. "Just indulge my curiosity for a moment more, I beg you. Has Mablung made some withdrawal from the armory funds? For I recall that it was far larger only recently."

"Not Mablung, no," Venessiel shook her head, and she paused for a moment in indecision, looking distinctly as though she knew more than she ought to say. She shifted nervously in her chair, raised her chin, and, at last, spoke, "it was none of the king's ministers. Indeed, it was the king himself who withdrew nearly all of the funds allocated to the armory."

"And Mablung did not sign off on that?" Celeborn asked.

"No. The king does not need a minister's consent, save mine, to withdraw funding," Venessiel said, "and, as the king's hand, neither do you for that matter, so long as you have the king's consent." She knew, of course, that Celeborn knew this as well but it seemed as though he spoke from disbelief rather than ignorance.

"What did he use it for?" Celeborn asked tersely and Venessiel could see that he was growing angry. His green eyes darted back and forth as though he were analyzing various scenarios in his mind and his jaw was clenched tightly, breathing hard through his nostrils.

"I should not be speaking of this!" She hissed in a low voice, looking nervous. "It is the King's private matter. You may well be the High Prince, but that does not mean that you may know whatever you want."

"You underestimate me," he whispered. "I will find out, if not from you than in my own way. Which would you have, Venessiel, will you tell me yourself or shall I root it out?"

"I assure you I have never underestimated you. It was given over to the preparation of Nargothrond," Venessiel said somewhat grudgingly, producing the form with Thingol's signature and pushing it across the polished wood of her desk towards Celeborn.

"That money should have come from the Ministry of Commerce, as was agreed upon. There was plenty of silver allocated for just that purpose," Celeborn replied. "What need had Finrod for more money than we were already giving him? He brought many a treasure out of Tirion. He said himself that he needed not all of the assistance that Thingol gave."

"Yes, that is so," Venessiel said, "though I doubt that Lord Finrod knew anything about the matter at all as this was done separately, in private by the king without consulting his council…or you it seems. He seemed quite anxious…"

"That is unlike him. I cannot believe…" Celeborn allowed his voice to trail off in anger.

"He is worried by the events of late: the coming of the Noldor, the recent increase in activity of Morgoth and his armies. Perhaps he wishes to secure a firmer alliance with the children of Finarfin."

"Yet…" Celeborn stopped himself.

"Yet he expressed displeasure at your interest in the Lady Artanis," Venessiel finished for him and Celeborn said nothing except to nod curtly, for the taste of Artanis's lips still lingered on his own and he feared that if he were to speak of her their covert courtship would be revealed. "Perhaps that has changed?" Venessiel shrugged. "Of course, I do not know. You have more insight into the way the king's mind works than I. Ah, yes." She produced another form, this one also bearing the king's signature. "Ten million silver for assorted gifts."

"Assorted gifts!" Celeborn cried, slamming his fist into the top of the desk, causing Venessiel to jump. The treasury went quiet and not even the clinking of coins could be heard. Celeborn shifted in his chair and rubbed self consciously at his chin as if trying to disguise his outburst of temper. "Could you not have stopped him? You too are his counselor Venessiel. He would heed your word in matters of money. Your signature is on that document. You could have refused!"

"He would not be dissuaded," she said but Celeborn shot her a reproachful look, for he knew that Venessial was not easily swayed, not unless she wished to be.

"Ten million…" he whispered incredulously. "Our resources were nearly sapped dry by the Battle of Beleriand and still we have not recovered. This is not the time to be spending money buying alliances rather than rebuilding our strength!"

"Celeborn," Venessiel leaned forward, whispering, pausing and waiting to continue until the chatter and hubbub grew loud once more. "You must tell me what this is about." Her black eyes were fierce, boring into his. "You give me reason to think that I have cause to worry. Something has happened and you had better tell me what."

"There…" Celeborn leaned closer so that only she could hear. "There is an incident with the dwarves that I am investigating."

"What sort of incident?" Venessiel asked.

"They are claiming that Thingol brought them here with the promise that he would order 10 million silver worth of armor, a promise which he now refuses to keep. Meanwhile, Thingol claims that no such agreement was ever made, merely that the dwarves wished to use our smithies and trade under the protection of our tariffs, which he granted them the right to do. The dwarves claim that there is a written contract yet Thingol denies its existence and I have found nothing."

"Is that it?" Venessiel leaned back, laughing and shaking her head. "Celeborn, they are dwarves! They lie and they grub for money and riches. I know; I deal with them every day in here. The number of times that I have caught them falsifying contracts, embezzling, trying to augment their wages, even stealing outright are beyond number. They can't help it; it is in their nature. You cannot blame them for what comes naturally to them, simply remain vigilant so that they don't rob you blind."

"If you had been there then you would take them seriously as well," Celeborn replied. "I have never seen them so furious. It makes me think that mayhap their anger is in part justified."

"Surely you do not doubt Thingol's word?" Venessiel asked, bewildered. "You would believe a dwarf's word over your own king's" She looked off-put.

"I am not sure what to believe anymore," Celeborn replied. But of one thing he was certain: now that Artanis had given him her hand he intended to take action, to root out whatever ill-begotten schemes lay hidden in this affair for the sake of Doriath, so that his kingdom might be preserved, so that his lady would never again lose a home.

*****

Finrod son of Finarfin did not often apologize, but there were times when such things were not only necessary, they were right. Nevertheless, it had taken him many weeks to swallow his pride and, at last, he had come here, to wait outside of Elu Thingol's council chamber with the air of a child about to be scolded by his schoolmaster.

Celeborn allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as the total was counted and he saw that his argument against damming the Sirion had carried the vote. The case had been many years in proceeding and, while there were arguments with merit on both sides, he believed that the move was not a wise one overall. The verdict decided, all there rose, for they had been sitting a great while, and there was much bowing and clasping of hands. Celeborn wished nothing more than to change out of the restricting and overly ornate court garments that he wore. Thus, after he had politely thanked those who offered praise for his arguments, he slipped from the room, removing his crown from his head and tossing it in the air before catching it, smiling to himself and thinking that perhaps, if he had time, he would show Galadriel the willow groves this evening.

"Celeborn! I…ah…er" he had almost run directly into Felagund.

"Ah…Finrod," Celeborn said nervously and the two elves stood eyeing each other as two stags preparing to do battle might, skittish yet unable to escape their predicament.

"Well..ah…" Finrod mumbled with a nervous laugh, starting then stopping again.

"I, actually…" Celeborn said, pausing.

"I would speak to you…if you are not too busy," Finrod stammered.

"Yes, yes, I was going to say the same," Celeborn said. "There is, um, there is a…a library close by where we might talk." They shuffled silently towards it and ducked inside, seeing that it was nearly deserted. However, once inside they merely positioned themselves opposite one another, arms crossed over each of their chests, neither willing to start the conversation until finally Felagund could contain himself no more.

"Look here Celeborn," he said, his tone tight with anger, his golden brow furrowed, "what right had you to supersede the names that my parents bestowed upon my sister?"

"I did not know that such an action required the possession of a right – " Celeborn began, the storm clouds gathering quickly in his Sindarin eyes, but Finrod interrupted him angrily, breathing hard through his nostrils.

"No, Celeborn, no, I will have none of your riddles and twisted logic. Nor will I allow you to escape unscathed by replying to my questions with questions. You have only yourself to thank for it, for it was by your hand that I was trained in negotiation. You will answer me plainly now." If the library had been nearly deserted before it was completely deserted now and disgruntled elves filtered past the arguing princes and out the door.

"Because her other names are not suitable," Celeborn replied just as quickly, his true feelings quickly surfacing as ever they did when he was angry. It was his rude abruptness that signaled Finrod that Celeborn meant everything he said with precision. "Artanis? She is a noble maiden indeed, but so are many others, it hardly seems to capture the essence of her fea. Nerwen?" He scoffed. "Forgive me, for I am sure that your parents named her as they saw fit, but there is nothing mannish about her - "

"It is because her temperament is as strong as a man's," Finrod interrupted, anger flashing in his eyes.

"By that measure Melian, or Luthien, or Venessiel might be considered mannish," Celeborn said, his eyes flashing too. "Strength is not confined to males only. Many of my best march wardens are she elves. Melian is the strongest woman I have ever met; how could I associate strength with only men having been raised by one such as her?"

"That I know! But your name, this, this…Galadriel," Finrod began, but even the venom he spat that sobriquet with could not make it sound anything less than ethereally beautiful, "how is this name in any way more suitable? You say that her other names are only superficial yet yours is the most superficial yet, for you name her only for her hair, which I find hardly original at all, indeed, a thousand others before you have lusted after it."

"It was not for her hair that I named her Galadriel!" Celeborn cried. "If she were bald as a newborn babe I would still have named her thusly!" The both of them fell into silence and Finrod seemed a bit taken aback at finding his assumption had been false, particularly as he had thought himself so clearly in the right.

"Why then, did you name her that?" He asked, a little less angrily, shame beginning to wash over him for having assumed his friend to be so insincere. It was not a mistake he would have made ordinarily, yet jealousy and fear have a way of working upon the mind to make it believe with complete security even the most fantastic of falsehoods.

"For the strength of her fea," Celeborn begrudgingly admitted, for he had not even shared the reason with Galadriel herself. "When first I beheld the dawn it was so bright that it blinded me and I found that my eyes were struck by a great pain and in the dawn's light I saw that the world was painted in colors I had never seen and that many things that had lain unseen were brought to light. The strength of that first sunlight amazed me; I shall never forget it, and at the same time it frightened me terribly, for I thought that the whole of Arda would plunge into flame and burn up like ether." He waited, muscles tense, for Finrod to laugh at the simple ignorance of a dark elf but Felagund did no such thing, merely listened attentively.

"I…I…when I first saw your sister I had much the same feeling," he said growing suddenly bashful, as if it were a great secret. And Finrod once more found himself surprised by his friend, that he would share his opinions so boldly while guarding so closely the inner workings of his heart. "The strength of her fea shone forth so brightly that I could hardly bear to look directly at her and I was amazed, for I thought that I was seeing something entirely new for the first time, a world painted all in new hues, just as I was afraid…well…because she was so very…radiant that I thought she might burn me up like a moth in a flame if I were to touch her."

He glanced up, meeting his friend's eyes, but Finrod did not make fun of him, only smiled, and said, "you do know you are not supposed to look directly at the sun don't you, Celeborn?"

"Well I certainly do now," Celeborn said with a hint of embarrassment, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. "It was very difficult at first. I think I gazed upon it for too long, until my eyes began to hurt at least, and I walked about seeing double for days, silently panicking, thinking that I had ruined my eyesight forever." He raised his eyes again at the snorting, choking sound of restrained laugher that Finrod was now emitting.

"I am sorry, I am so very sorry," Finrod gasped. "I don't mean to make fun of you. It just…I can imagine you walking around bumping into things." But Celeborn grinned too and the thick ice that had lain between them seemed to thaw somewhat.

"Now that I think about it," Celeborn said with a grin, "it does seem rather amusing. But tell me, was my explanation satisfactory?"

"Indeed, it was better than I would ever have imagined," Finrod said. "I worried over it for that is the prerogative of a husband and I thought that you renamed her lightly, with little understanding of the gravity of what you did. But, I can see now that that was not the case, and that you gave the matter more consideration than I had presumed." Celeborn nodded, accepting the apology.

"About…about the matter of…er…taking her to my bed," the Sinda said, trying to broach the topic as delicately as he could, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. "I…it is quite usually done between Sindarin couples and, as Galadriel was willing and said nothing to the contrary, I assumed that things were the same amongst your people."

"You could have asked," Finrod said a bit sharply, "or else not been so hasty."

"My apologies. I fear that I have a rather hasty temperament," Celeborn said and Finrod snorted in laughter at Celeborn having stated something that was already blatant. "But Galadriel gave her consent and I do not believe that she needs the approval of anyone to do as she wishes with her own heart…or her body. Though, I assure you that I have not taken her to wife either in body or vow."

"I do not know whether that makes it better or worse," Finrod said. "I cannot pretend that I approve of such an arrangement before marriage but if it is normal amongst your people and my sister has consented then I will not protest, for she is, as you have said, an adult and has the right to do as she pleases in that respect. However, I would have preferred that you had spoken to me of it earlier, or at least been honest with me about your intentions towards my sister from the start, for it was a cruel shock indeed to hear it as gossip from the lips of strangers rather than from your mouth. I wondered if you were not my friend at all, or if Artanis no longer bore me any affection as my sibling."

"I am sorry," Celeborn said. "I did not think…or else I feared the loss of your friendship, but, of course, that is no excuse. I hope that I have not hurt you too deeply."

"It is not entirely your fault," Finrod said, "for Artanis too remained silent and, besides, my own jealousy is partly to blame."

"Over what?" Celeborn asked, yet he regretted the words almost immediately, belatedly realizing the reason.

"Amarie…she dwells in crystal halls across the sea in a palace where I fear I shall never walk again," Finrod sighed, looking so entirely despondent that to look upon him nearly brought tears to Celeborn's eyes. "She begged me, begged me not to come here, begged me to stay with her, to marry her and I wanted to…but more than that I wanted to satiate my other desires, to seek vengeance against Morgoth, to see this world, to build my own kingdom. I suppose…when I heard of you and Artanis together a great jealousy was awakened in my heart. In other words, I became very jealous of you, Celeborn."

"I did not know that you desired me so, Felagund," said Celeborn in an attempt at humor that he hoped would lift some of the heavy sadness that lay upon his friend's heart, "though of course I am not surprised, considering how many others have confessed the same sentiment to me."

"It is not that!" Finrod exclaimed, cracking a grin. "I wondered why my sister should find love while I had lost mine: a wretched thought; I know."

"You might return and find that she loves you still, that there is hope for reconciliation," Celeborn said kindly.

"And what ship would bear me back across the sea to her arms!" Finrod cried as if struck by a pain both sudden and keen. But before Celeborn could wonder at his cryptic words, Finrod spoke again, saying, "nay, her life will be all the better for my absence, for I am a foul friend and a fouler lover still, thinking only of my own selfish desires."

"Finrod, you are no such thing. I have found you to be nothing other than a steadfast and loyal friend!" Celeborn exclaimed, but the Noldo shook his head once more.

"No, Celeborn, it is only because my innermost thoughts are yet concealed that you think in such a way. If they were known to you then I assure you that you would know me for the despicable and selfish creature that I am."

"Let me make that decision for myself," Celeborn said.

"Well then, I will tell you that, even with all of the love that I bear for you and Thingol and your people, when first I heard that you and Artanis were lovers I wished that we were in Valinor, where they would certainly flog you for having the audacity to take a princess of the house of Finwe to your bed and there defile her, you a Moriquendi who has never seen the light. That is why I said to you, 'if things were in Valinor as they are here.' Even now, I cannot pretend that there are not moments where I think of you sometimes as lesser."

It was indeed, as Finrod had said, something that was very difficult to hear and, even thought Celeborn knew that his friend was ashamed of his thoughts, he still felt the anger boiling in him, anger that the Noldor saw them as inferior, treated them as inferior.

"I know it is wrong Celeborn," Finrod said quietly, ashamed, "and I do not believe it. Whenever it crops up in my thoughts I extinguish it quickly, killing it like a bud in first frost, but I would not lie to you and pretend that I am innocent when I am not. The words of my uncle Feanor regarding your people still are engraved upon my mind and it may take me some time before I am entirely able to buff them out."

Celeborn nodded and said, "I will not feign as though it does not injure me to hear such words, for indeed, I am cut to the quick by them, but more than that I am glad that you have not concealed it from me for dishonesty is the one thing that I cannot abide and I despise it even more than I do intolerance."

"I am sorry," Finrod said, "I am not as open-minded as my sister, who has rarely been susceptible to such prejudiced thoughts. But I am trying to learn…indeed, it is thanks to your friendship that I was able to set aside the arrogance and much of the bigoted notions that I held prior to coming to Menegroth. I hope that, if you will continue to be my friend, I may be able to set them aside completely."

"Let us put this misunderstanding behind us then, for I too spoke harshly and in the heat of the moment. Your friendship is not something I would care to lose and I am happy to have it thus restored." Celeborn said, seeing the tension drain from the Noldo at his words.

"Yes, let us be friends again," Finrod said with a smile, clasping Celeborn's hand.

"Then have you any further compunctions regarding my courtship of your sister?" Celeborn asked.

"No, I have not," Finrod assured him, for having aired his thoughts and found acceptance, he found that his heart now felt as light as a feather. "So long as you are honest in your intentions with her."

"You need not fear on that account," Celeborn said, "for I mean to marry her if she will have me."

"Then on that day I hope that I shall be the first to congratulate you," Finrod replied, "for I can think of no one I would rather see her wed."

"In that case," Celeborn said, "perhaps you will join me for a beer?"

"I can think of no more delightful prospect," Finrod said, and together the two of them made their way to the great hall, laughing

and joking as they had many years before.

"You are drunk," Celeborn heard her say, laughing softly as he climbed into bed.

"A bit, only a bit," he replied as her arms wrapped around him. The sun was just beginning to rise and he caught glimpses of her smile in the faint dappled light that filtered down from above. Freeing himself from her embrace momentarily, he closed the bed curtains, plunging them into darkness.

"A bit? You smell as if you have bathed in alcohol!" Galadriel replied but she was not upset and curled up against him as he settled in beneath the blankets. "You are so late. I was beginning to think you would not rest this night."

"I was setting things aright with your brother, as you asked me to," he told her, wrapping an arm about her to pull her closer.

"You rogue," she purred, "coming drunken from a brother's table to his sister's bower."

"It is still my bed unless I am mistaken," he said.

"Ours," she replied with a laugh.

"Should you not be thanking me instead?" He teased her, nipping at her neck.

"My thanks," she whispered into his ear, laughing.

"Then I will give you reason to thank me further," he said.

"Oh shall I?" She asked, "And why is that?" But he made no reply and she needed none, for his mouth was soon busy elsewhere.

*****

The sun seemed unusually hot, or perhpas it was the result of running twenty miles, most probably both, Celeborn thought to himself as he walked wearily away from the finish line, which he had crossed a full five minutes after Beleg, who, he had heard, had trotted merrily across the line without even breaking a sweat. It was unsurprising really; Beleg had always been the fastest of the wardens and habitually won the races each decade.

Celeborn himself had no great interest in running and viewed it as more of a chore than anything; contact sports were more to his liking: sparring, or wrestling, hunting or anything with horses. Yet he made good time for one who did not enjoy the sport, for his physical build was somewhere between Beleg's slenderness and Mablung's muscle-bound physique. He walked further down from the finish line, waiting to see Mablung finish, but there was yet no sight of him. Still, despite Mablung's ineptitude for running, Celeborn mused, at least he had qualified for this first heat. It would have been tantamount to embarrassment for a warden to have not done so and even moreso for the captain of the king's guard. The rest of Menegroth would be participating in the second heat, which was more for fun than anything, as it was only for common folk and not the warriors. Galathil, he knew, would be running in that and Dairon as well, if Galathil had managed to talk him into it.

"Cousin! Too much for you eh?" A jolly but red-faced Oropher joked as he walked past the sweat-drenched high prince. Celeborn laughed and slapped the hand that his golden-haired cousin extended to him. He had been in extraordinarily good spirits of late due to his resounding success in his relationship with Galadriel and the restoration of his friendship with Finrod. It seemed that Oropher was in equally good spirits and Celeborn could guess the reason, for there were rumors circulating regarding his cousin and a certain lady.

"What are you up to Oropher? Mischief I presume?" Celeborn asked with a grin.

"Nothing much," Oropher replied, "and you?"

"Only waiting for uncle to finish so that I may speak to him," Celeborn said. "I heard you were just behind Beleg?"

"Aye, I lost to him by but fifteen seconds," Oropher said, eyes alight with mischief. "Next time I shall have him."

"Really, shall you indeed?" Celeborn laughed. "You're simply lucky that Amdir is no longer with us. He was Beleg's only real competition."

"Sometimes I think that Amdir was the only one with his head on right." Oropher said, growing cross.

"And yet you never liked him when he was about," Celeborn replied.

"Yes well, the past is the past," Oropher replied, brooding, and Celeborn sought to turn the topic away from Thingol's deserter general.

"Do you plan to watch the lady wardens' race later?" He asked, reaching behind him to unstick his matted hair from his back.

"Do I plan to watch the lady wardens?" Oropher instantly brightened, laughing long and hard. "Sometimes I think you know me not at all cousin. I would sooner die than miss that race! Venessiel is running and I plan to be there to watch her."

"In the wardens' race?" Celeborn was surprised. He did not recall her ever having run the races at all, much less in the more difficult and competitive race.

"Aye," Oropher's eyes glimmered.

"It seems you've taken a shine to her in recent years," Celeborn said.

"It seems I have," Oropher grinned. "She and Mablung are finished, in case you haven't heard."

"I heard," Celeborn grinned and shook his head, "and I wondered whether or not you had a hand in it. I know that caution is a foreign notion to you Oropher but perhaps you should exercise it with her. She seems to go through suitors rather quickly."

"You mean she went through you rather quickly," Oropher teased his cousin, laughing, then elbowed him in the ribs. "That's rich Celeborn, very rich indeed, telling me to take caution when you lured that Noldorin princess into your bed within a year of her arrival in Menegroth. Finwe's granddaughter!" The golden-haired Sinda let out a long laugh. "You are even more of an arrogant ass than I am, only you don't like to admit it!" Celeborn grinned at that.

"She is running this year," Celeborn said, stretching his arms, "in the wardens' race. She claims she was quite the runner in Aman."

"Is that so?" Oropher asked. "Well if that is true then I am not sure she will have much competition. None of our current female wardens are particularly swift of foot."

"True," Celeborn replied. "What about Luthien? Do you know if she is running?"

"Oh no," Oropher shook his head dismissively. "Galathil could not get Dairon to run if Luthien would not agree to run with the two of them together. They will all three be in the second heat."

"Perhaps Galadriel will win after all then," Celeborn said.

"Galadriel," Oropher snorted, "doesn't she hate that name you gave her?"

"Extremely," Celeborn laughed. "That is why I call her by it."

"You know, as much as I dislike her, I must agree that she is quite fun to agitate," Oropher replied.

"She's too much like you, that's why you don't like her," Celeborn smiled, raising an eyebrow at his cousin in pleasure as he noted the look of distaste upon his face.

"Well now, you're just trying to get my goat cousin!" Oropher said. "Ah! It looks as though uncle has finished at last. Did you not say that you wanted to speak to him?"

"I did," Celeborn replied.

"Well in that case I shall be on my way to my lady," Oropher said before trotting off.

"Uncle!" Celeborn greeted the King, who was bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing in deep gasps by the side of the finish line, looking very much as though he wanted to retch. "I must speak to you! I mean to ask the Lady Artanis for her hand in marriage."

Thingol raised his eyes to his nephew's with a quizzical look and, in between gasps, let out a rough oath. "Illuvatar!...For fuck's sake Celeborn!...Can you not give me even…a moment…to catch my breath…before descending…upon me…with such…tidings?"

"Apologies uncle," the younger elf said with a grin, "I believe that it was you who taught me to always attack my adversaries when they are at their weakest."

"Damn you," Thingol gasped, looking quite put out. "You young elves…always…getting into all sorts…of business. And what, pray tell…" the king coughed, "has you so convinced that…I am your adversary?" He straightened, seeming at last to have gotten some of his wind back, and took a towel offered to him by a teenage elfling who was doing a very poor job of pretending to have no interest whatsoever in their conversation.

"You spoke to me earlier of your disapproval," Celeborn said, "but you have done nothing in the intervening years to halt the progress of our courtship, though you were aware of its going on."

"Celeborn, I gave you warning and you, as usual, proceeded to do exactly what you wanted with little to no regard for that warning," Thingol said, toweling off his face. "After that point, what you do in your own bed and who you take to it has been of no concern to me so long as there is no accidental marriage and no unexpected elflings. You know as well as I that you need only speak to me of marriage, for you are a prince of Doriath…" Thingol paused, suddenly looking extraordinarily suspicious. "If you are here to tell me that the two of you have married in secret and that Finwe's granddaughter is carrying your child…"

"No, uncle, no!" Celeborn cried, laughing.

"Well then," Thingol said, "things are as they should be," and he grinned. "But this seems to me a strange time to bring up such matters."

"I assure you it is only because you have been so busy of late and the matter weighed heavily upon my mind. I could think of nothing else until I spoke to you of it and today presented the opportunity," said Celeborn.

"You may, perhaps," the King said in reply, "be happy to know that this news does not trouble me as much as I had thought it would. Let us say that my position on the matter has evolved somewhat."

"Then you do not disapprove?" Celeborn asked hopefully as he and his uncle began to stride over to the King's tent.

"Not so much," Thingol said, shaking his head.

"Has it been Melian's influence then that brought about you…evolution?" Celeborn asked.

Thingol shrugged. "Yes, in part. I am still concerned, of course, over what these Noldor have done that seems to have brought them so much grief, yet Finrod and Artanis have been my loyal subjects for nearly ten years now; never have they done anything to earn my ire. You were right to say that they deserve some measure of trust for seeking to adapt to our ways and obey our laws where others do not. Your Artanis has become the close friend of your aunt and my daughter and Finrod's Nargothrond is prospering beyond even our wildest hopes. Indeed, our alliance with the children of Finarfin has grown strong and I feel very confident now that we need not concern ourselves with the Feanorians."

"Our kingdom is prospering, Celeborn, returning to the glory that it held ere Melkor returned to these lands. And with the recent victory of Finrod and the rest of the Noldor in the Dagor Aglareb, we have a brighter future ahead perhaps. Surely the marriage of the High Prince of Beleriand to a Princess of the Noldor could only further enrich our kingdom and our alliance. The house of Elwe and the house of Finwe united at last!" He laughed merrily. "I always did wish for such a thing. How I should like to see Finwe's face were I to tell him! Ah! If only he were here and we could celebrate your marriage together! Now that would truly be a tale for the ages. In other words, you have my consent and, more than that, my approval.

"I am glad to see you so cheerful Uncle," Celeborn said as they entered the King's tent.

"Melian!" The king called out, greeting his wife.

"Auntie!" Celeborn embraced his laughing aunt as she stood from the stool upon which she had been seated.

"Oh Celeborn," Melian laughed, tousling his hair.

"Are you not running today Auntie?" Celeborn asked, noting that she wore a gown rather than the leggings and jerkin that Luthien, who was stretching upon the grass in the tent, wore.

"That would not be quite fair to the other ladies," Melian said with a grin, returning to her seat.

"What isn't fair is that I must run in the second heat," Luthien complained from her spot on the grass, where she sat stretching her legs.

"I heard that Dairon made you promise," Celeborn teased his cousin.

"Yes, because Dairon can't do anything for himself," Luthien grumbled, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"Always needs you there massaging his insecurities away doesn't he," Celeborn said. It was no secret that he and Dairon did not get along.

"Celeborn!" Luthien slapped his ankle, which was the only part of him she could reach from her position.

"What?"

"He's my friend," she said. "It's alright if I insult him. But you genuinely dislike him and say things just to be cruel. Say something to make me happy now, for you have upset me."

"I am planning to ask Galadriel to marry me," Celeborn said, pouring himself a glass of water from the silver pitcher that sat on the table.

"Already?" She asked, seeming surprised.

"You will find, when your time comes Lu, that these things often happen quickly. It was the same with your parents. It is the same with Galadriel and I."

"Celeborn, she hates that name," Luthien said, looking up and rolling her eyes at him.

"For the sake of the Valar, can't you be happy about anything today Lu?" Celeborn complained.

"I'm only joking," Luthien cackled, slapping his ankle again. "That's simply lovely! I am so happy. She'll say yes of course! But…she really does hate that name."

"I know," Celeborn laughed, sitting on the table and letting the glass hang from his fingertips. "What makes you so sure she'll say yes?" Luthien rolled her eyes again and laughed.

"Silly! Valar, because I am her friend and so she tells me everything, even things I don't want to know! It's Celeborn this and Celeborn that and Celeborn is so perfect, and handsome, and smart, and wonderful," Luthien made a retching sound and Celeborn shook his head. "You wouldn't understand the ways of women, Celeborn."

"You're just jealous Lu," he said with a smirk.

"Not in the slightest." She said. "Believe me, there are things she says that I would rather not know." Celeborn's eyes went wide and Luthien laughed.


	10. Shadows at Noon

  
**Shadows at Noon**

In Cavern's Shade: 10th Chapter

*****

"A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies."

\- Alfred Lord Tennyson

*****

Author's note: Thank you for reading. If anyone wants to drop me a review, question, or comment I'd appreciate it!

*****

Years, they had been courting for years and never had they had any problems, no serious ones at any rate. Yes, it was true that he was aware, they were all aware, that some darkness hung over the Noldor, so very aware, in fact, that it had become somewhat of a cliché, and a poor one at that. He had broached the topic several times with her, yet each time it felt as though a wedge had been driven between them and he was hammering it in further and further, deeper and deeper. Celeborn did not customarily make a habit of continuing a course of action that failed to yield results and so, in time, he had stopped. After all, there had been no other problems; and they were happy, or at least he had been.

Now he was not so certain and, strangely enough, it was the one thing he had expected to lay his singular doubt to rest that had, in fact, had quite the opposite, and unintended, effect. For if they were bonded then there could be no secret keeping between the two of them and, if she had not intended to marry him then why would she have agreed to the courtship? He had expected to make his proposal soon after obtaining the king's permission and yet, from the moment that he had obtained it, doubt had been burgeoning in his mind like a cancer. How strange that, for once, Thingol had welcomed something while he now balked like a horse at the bit. Celeborn was unused to uncertainty and even more unused to indecision. The concepts were as foreign to him as drowning to a fish.

He had gone so far as to approach one of the smiths to have two silver betrothal bands made. Yet days had turned to weeks, weeks to months, and now, for over two years those rings had sat gathering dust in a drawer, though they were far from forgotten; on the contrary, they weighed as heavily upon his mind as if he had a millstone about his neck.

There were some males, he knew, some such as Mablung, that balked at the idea of marriage, at the thought that it would strip them of their freedom, and prided themselves on avoiding it. But Celeborn was not one of these. It was not as though the thought of marriage, once it became such a realistic possibility, had suddenly become frightening, but rather that it had awakened doubts that had slept unknown in his mind, doubts that had lain dormant for many a long year.

At first he had thought that, whatever secret she kept, she must certainly keep it only for the good of another and not because she had played some part in whatever it was. Now he was not so sure. And, what was more, he had begun to suspect that the secret might have some bearing on her visions and, if that were so, then perhaps it was something darker than he had heretofore imagined. For he had been awakened more than once by her nightmares.

He had grown distant of late, he knew. And, of course, as he pulled away she sought increasingly to bring him closer to her. Sometimes he doubted if he knew her at all, yet the thought was so loathsome to him, so heart wrenching, and his own culpability, the thought that he ought to have heeded Thingol's words from the start, so great that he could not bear to dwell on it for very long. It was hard, very hard, to continue trusting her.

"You walk so loudly I could shoot you in the dark…Nerwen," he said in a bored tone as he turned to grin at her. She did not walk as quietly as she thought she did and his Sindarin ears had for some minutes now marked her stealthy approach. The look of surprise on her face was nearly enough to make him forget his grim thoughts.

"Who told you that?" She demanded, her face coloring red. As if Celeborn needed any more horrid nicknames for her. Dammit, it must have been Finrod. Only he knew that damned nickname. Next time he visited from Nargothrond she would show her brother what was what.

"Who do you think?" He replied laughing. "Why are you ashamed of it? There's nothing wrong with being called Nerwen."

"Yet you have just now used it to torment me," she replied with a smug grin, "which implies I ought to be ashamed of it does it not? It is your favorite pastime, or so it seems, name-calling. I imagine you were a horror as an elfling."

However, despite her slight ire at that wretched name, she had to admit that she was secretly pleased, for there had been some unspoken tension between them of late and Celeborn had seemed to her rather more taciturn than usual. Indeed, she had begun to wonder, more often than not, if she had done something to make him so very irritable, for their courtship had, to this point, progressed in a happy fashion and their arguments had been few and far between. It was a relief to see that his humor had returned.

"You should speak to Thingol about that sometime," Celeborn said with a grin. "Oh the stories he would tell you. It seems I was a real terror."

"No doubt," she smirked and rolled her eyes. "I pity him, and your poor brother of course."

"And you were any better? I imagine Finrod would have many stories to tell if I were to ask him," he laughed. "Come, sit with me," he patted the patch of grass beside him. "You meant to push me in didn't you?"

"What? You have the gift of foresight now?" She asked him teasingly as she scrambled down the riverbank to sit beside him. His eyes were focused out on the water now, to where his lure was bobbing peacefully, his fishing line swaying ever so gently in the summer breeze.

"No," he laughed. "But it was not so difficult to discern your motive, however, you ought to be thankful that your plan fell through. It would have gone poorly for you as I would have pulled you in as well."

"Are you so sure?" She asked, skeptically.

"Oh yes. And I would have enjoyed it very much," he grinned at her, watching her from the corner of his eye.

"I think I might have stood a fair chance," she said with a laugh. "I do, after all, excel at distracting you."

"Yes, that is very true," he said, laughing. They sat in pleasant silence for a while, enjoying the sunshine and the songs of the birds as Artanis readied her fishing pole.

"I haven't seen you fish before," he said and she noticed that he was watching as she threaded the fat wriggling worm onto the hook.

"Not recently, no. But, well, having grown up in Aqualonde I certainly have some experience. I used to fish there often as a child with my grandparents. They would take my brothers and I out in their boats and we would fish to our heart's content. I remember it being very peaceful, one of the only times that I felt truly happy in Aman." But recalling those memories of Alqualonde did not yield happy reminiscence, rather, as sudden as a summer storm, she found her heart clutched tight in the grip of fear and the world went suddenly dark.

_'Help!' She had shouted to anyone and everyone. She clutched the handle of her spear and brought it tight against her, holding it as though it were a doll and she were a child and this was all some horrible nightmare that she would wake up from any moment. She did not know where her grandparents were or if they were safe._

_There were tears pouring down her face and her heart was racing, panicked, for she had no idea what to do. And then she saw it, one of Feanor's soldiers grabbed up a young Teleri elfling, barely big enough to walk. The child was screaming, wailing, face red as an apple and the soldier seemed to panic, raising his sword to deal the blow._

_She did not know when she had moved or how but the next thing she recalled was that her spear was sunk clean to the hilt in the Noldo's stomach. There was fear in his eyes, fear and confusion. He dropped the child, struggling to breathe, for her blade had punched clear through his diaphragm, and then he crumpled, bleeding out his life on the sand before tumbling into the ocean in a plume of red. She stared down at her hands, trembling; she had killed, murdered. The fishing boats bobbed in the water._

"Galadriel?" She heard her suitor's concerned voice and everything swam into focus again. She rubbed at her forehead, willing the sharp pain there to dissipate. Celeborn's hand was on her shoulder and she turned to see worry in his green eyes where mirth had been only moments earlier.

"They're getting worse aren't they?" He asked her with concern. He was right. For a while at least, with Melian's help and with her thoughts continually preoccupied by the newness of her and Celeborn's courtship, it had seemed that they had dissipated for the most part. But recently they were returning, and with a pronounced potency, or so it seemed. She wondered, almost, if it was her increasing proximity to Celeborn that made it so, for even before their courtship it had been his presence that had driven her to have grave doubts and though love had been the antidote for a while it was love itself that seemed to now be hurrying that toxin through her veins ever more rapidly.

"They are," she replied, rubbing her forehead still. "My apologies," she was embarrassed now, despite how intimately he knew her…or rather, because of it, and she stood, thinking only that she wished nothing more than to flee - but to where? Her rooms had ceased to be hers except nominally, for she resided now in Celeborn's chambers. How was it that in the palace of a thousand caves there was not a single place where she might hide herself away?

"Stop, Artanis," he had caught her hand and was holding it in a strong grip now. His touch was warm and she could feel the many callouses from the bowstring. "I've told you before that you have nothing to be ashamed of and I will tell you again." She turned her head away, could not bear the sight of his eyes.

"Look at me," he implored her, and she turned reluctantly, breathing in deeply to calm herself. His eyes were green as the leaves, kind, comforting. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. It is not a defect, to have such visions. Do you understand?" His eyes were as kind and firm as his voice.

For an instant, the words seemed ready to tumble from her mouth, she would tell him all of it, everything. It would be out, and done with, and over. He would know and then…then there might be mercy. "I…" she began. Mercy…for one such as she, she a murderess, and having spoken of it she would be a betrayer twice over. Her lips fell shut.

"What is it?" He asked her.

"Nothing," she shook her head with a laugh. "It is nothing, just, I was being silly."

"I assure you," he said, "despite how I may tease you, I do not think you silly at all."

"I know," she grasped his hand, feigning a smile, and she was not sure that he believed it.

"Here," he said, "let me help you." She nodded and sat down next to him once more as he threaded his fingers through hers, grasping her hand comfortingly, but her breathing was still unsteady. He turned to face her, sitting cross-legged.

"Here, turn about, give me your hands," he said, and again she did as he asked as they began a ritual that they had already practiced many hundreds of times in their decade long courtship. He took her hands gently into his and they sat, knee to knee, hand in hand, and she raised her eyes to his.

He began to draw in deep breaths, holding them for a while before releasing them slowly and, as they continued, she began to feel peace come over her until she was completely calm. The bad memories vanished and she felt only the sunshine upon her face, the playful wind in her hair, and saw only the reassuring eyes of Celeborn.

"You have my thanks, as ever," She told him with a smile when she was finally calm and relaxed.

"It is no bother," he said with a smile, handing her her fishing pole and she set to work untangling her now tangled line while Celeborn recast his.

"Something about you calms me," she said.

"Well those are words I don't hear very often," he laughed and she stood to cast her line. As they sat back down, he opened his pouch, taking out a small pipe and a packet of pipeweed. She watched, grinning, as he stuffed the tobacco into the pipe, clenched it between his teeth, and lit it as he breathed in. He took a long draw before releasing a series of smoke rings and then offered it to her. Artanis reached for it with one hand and took a long draw too, but she found herself coughing instead of blowing smoke rings. Celeborn laughed and took the pipe back from her.

"First time?" He asked. She nodded.

"I liked it, I'm just not used to it is all," she said. "I did not know that you smoked."

"I don't, not usually," he said, "only when I am fishing or drunk." He took another long draw and this time released the smoke in a series of trees.

"Trees?" She asked, somewhat amazed.

"It's a natural gift. We're all born with it. Even Sindarin children can blow smoke in the shape of trees," he said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Artanis, however, could not and burst out laughing.

"You and your tall tales! The only thing you Sindar can do is blow smoke up people's asses," she said. He laughed at that, handing the pipe back to her, and tried to teach her to blow smoke rings until the pipeweed was all used up. But she never managed to get the hang of it.

"Lazy fish today," he said, putting the pipe away. Artanis could not help but watch him covertly while he closed his eyes and, with a perfectly contented grin, let the wind play with his hair. She relished in knowing how handsome her suitor was and, even knowing that she might look upon him now whenever she wished, she gained some pleasure from watching him when he was unaware.

"So," she said, "what brought you down here today?"

"I came here to think," he said, eyes out on the water, still smiling.

"About what?" She asked.

"About you," he replied, turning to meet her eyes. It was the truth, though he gave her no reasons. He knew that she had sensed it of late, this change in him, just as he knew that was the very reason that she looked at him with uncertainty now.

"Is that so?" She asked. "What of me?" And she seemed nervous, but Celeborn shied away from his thoughts of a moment earlier. For they were having such a pleasant time and, although his heart burned to speak his mind, he could not find it in himself quite yet to ruin their happiness. And besides, what would her response be if he were to issue such an ultimatum, to demand that she speak? She might spurn him completely, turn him away entirely, be done with him and that, he did not know if his heart could endure that.

"Oh! They're biting at last!" She cried jubilantly, rescuing him from the depths into which his heart had plunged. And Celeborn merely laughed before his line suddenly jerked and unexpectedly went taut, nearly pulling the pole out of his hands. He scrambled to catch it, only just managing to do so in the nick of time, before it was nearly pulled into the water. He began to pull in the fish that had bitten his hook and moved to squat by the edge of the river to pull it in the last few feet, pleasantly surprised by what he saw at the end.

"Come look!" He called, turning to her, laughing. "Tell me if you have these in Aman!" And, from the water, he pulled the most hideous fish she had ever seen. It had no scales but was instead covered with a greenish-black skin that appeared to be coated in slime and from its mouth protruded many long whisker-like appendages. It looked more like a worm to her than a fish.

"Come on," Celeborn urged with a broad grin, hefting the fish, which was roughly the size of a small elfling, into his arms where it thrashed wildly. Artanis approached with a great deal of trepidation and slowly reached out a hand to touch it. It was slimy after all and she quickly withdrew her hand with a grimace, causing Celeborn to laugh.

"This is a dwarf fish. There are bigger ones than this in these rivers," he said. "An interesting fish seeing as they can breathe out of water for many hours. They're quite good when fried up, though the meat is a bit watery."

"I don't know that I could bring myself to eat it," she said with a laugh. "It's so horrible looking, like an old dwarf."

"You'll hurt his feelings," Celeborn chided her.

"Fish don't have feelings," she insisted.

"Oh really?" He looked at the fish with pity. "She thinks you're ugly," he whispered to it and the fish, almost as if it understood him, turned to look at her with mournful eyes. Celeborn mimicked the look but was not quite able to disguise the mirth in his eyes, a product of teasing her.

"No!" She exclaimed quickly, though even as she did so she wondered why she should be apologizing to a fish. "He's not ugly, he's just unique!"

"I'll bet she uses that line on all the poor fellows," Celeborn whispered conspiratorially to the fish and it looked at him as though it had understood and was in on his plan, whatever that might be.

"I do not! I…oh…what?" She blurted out.

"Then," said Celeborn with a sly grin, holding the fish's face up beside his own, "which one of us would you rather kiss?"

"What?" She gasped, doubled over in laughter. Both he and the fish were mouthing idiotically at her now and she could not contain her mirth in the slightest. "The fish," she said with narrowed eyes, wanting so badly to annoy him. She should have known that he would make good on his threat.

"As you wish!" He replied and, to her horror, proffered the fish before her face. Artanis shrieked, leaping backwards. But, just as quickly as she could back away, he chased her with the wriggling fish.

"Celeborn stop!" She shrieked, yet she could not stop laughing, her ribs ached from it. She turned about to see the fish's hideous face but a hair's breadth from her own, held firmly in the grasp of the laughing Sinda and, in her distraction, tripped and, with a sizeable splash, plunged into the river.

"Whoa!" Celeborn dropped the fish into the river as his hands flew out. He hurried to fish his lady love out of the water but, before he could do so, a pair of hands emerged from the murky depths to grasp his collar and the next thing he knew, he too was submerged in the cool green water. He pushed his way to the surface, gasping as he emerged, wiping the water from his eyes to see Galadriel standing opposite him, red in the face from laughing so hard, her eyes sparkling a brilliant blue.

"I told you I would get you!" She cried jubilantly.

"I got you first!" He cried, charging towards her and grabbing her by the shoulders to duck her under again but, shrieking, she caught hold of him as well and, laughing, they pulled each other under, wrestling beneath the water until they pulled apart, holding hands, smiling with cheeks full of air, watching each other. Celeborn reached out and pressed his hands to her cheeks, forcing the air from them and they surfaced, gasping for breath, laughing, soaking wet.

Artanis's eyes were fixed upon Celeborn's now, green and full of joy, both of their chests still heaving from laughter. He moved his hands from her cheeks to cradle her head in his hands, grinning at her and she smiled back, still laughing as, slowly, he brushed his lips against hers. It was a sensation of which she thought she would never grow tired, especially as his kisses had been few and far between lately.

She closed her eyes, feeling his hot breath upon her lips and, as his arms moved to her waist, tightening about it, she kissed him back, cupping his face in her hands. After so long, their kisses were no longer those of inexperienced lovers, but were bold, aggressive, and it was not long before they clambered somewhat clumsily onto the bank where they might be in a more relaxed position in which to continue their endeavors.

"You know," Artanis began with a twinkle in her eye as they at last broke apart for air, "I have had many an offer of courtship, proper offers on bended knee with roses and jewels and pearls from the most respected nobility of Valinor," she said. "And though they sang my praises before the crowds and pleaded with honeyed words all of them failed to move me and I rejected each of them without thought. And you offered me not a single present yet I find that out of all of them only you were able to move my heart."

"I did get you a present but you did not like it," Celeborn replied with a laugh.

"You did not," she said.

"I offered you a fine specimen of dwarf fish, fresh caught from the Esgalduin, but it was not to your liking," he replied in mock earnestness.

Artanis laughed long and hard, her worries of earlier quite forgotten, and yet now, in this happy moment, it was Celeborn who brought them back upon her abruptly and, as ever, in the most disconcerting of manners.

"Thingol is concerned," he said. "For he perceives that a shadow hangs over you, as do I and he worries that I shall be caught up in whatever that may be."

"Why must you speak of this again now?" She asked him, sitting up. "We were having such a pleasant time." Why could he not be content to let things be? And why must he continually bring up this matter at the most inopportune times? She strongly suspected, though she said nothing of it, that the hardening of some things had the effect of seriously softening his inhibitions with his words.

"Because I love you!" He exclaimed, his face full of fierce conviction like a warrior preparing for battle. "I love you against my own conscience!" Only he could have said something so pleasing and so revolting in the same sentence and Artanis found that it left her feeling entirely unsure of how she ought to feel.

"Why must you say that now, when you are upset?" She asked, somewhat angered, surprised not at the sentiment, but that he said this now when in all these years he had never done so. Any other man would have said those words while speaking of happy things and gazing lovingly into his lover's eyes. Only Celeborn would say them while agitated and looking for all the world as if he planned to march in assault on Angbad itself. "Why can you not do things properly, as a lover ought?" She stood, crossing her arms over her chest and he stood too.

"I would have thought that it was apparent, that I need not say it," he said, his gaze fixed upon her own, his eyes troubled, his chest heaving with suppressed anger. "Surely you must know. Have my actions not spoken strongly enough? Words are so false, so untrustworthy." That was something about his personality that irked her exceedingly, that ability to so accurately pinpoint what seemed to him a tiny thing but was to her one of those deeply disconcerting threads that wound its way throughout every aspect of her life, spreading like hairline fractures across glass. Oh Celeborn, you do not know how very false my words are, she thought, angry tears rising to her eyes.

"Yes…" she stammered, "I suppose that I knew that." Her anger did not permit her to say anything more without shedding a tear and now that he had agitated her pride she would not permit herself to cry. "I am sorry," she said to him, grudgingly. "For if I was at liberty to speak to you of it then I would yet, for the moment, I am obliged to keep that secret from even you, though it sits ill with my own conscience to do so."

And Celeborn looked at her with a mixture of emotion in his eyes, sadness being not the least of these and he spoke, saying: "I wished that you trusted me enough to speak of it."

But Artanis shook her golden head, her anger slowly dissipating as sadness filled the void it left behind and said, "It is not because I do not trust you that I cannot speak but for your own good that I stay my tongue. For if I were to tell you it would place you in an extraordinarily difficult position where your loyalty to your own people might be drawn into question, for people would wonder if you had known and if you had also withheld the secret out of affection for me. And, knowing the place that your realm holds in your heart, I could never bring myself to do such a thing to you. Nay, if I am to tell any then it must be Thingol whom I speak to first."

"Then I would beg you speak with him," Celeborn said, stroking her hair. His anger too had been forgotten, his touch was tender, his eyes sad. "For if I surmise correctly then perhaps withholding this secret is the reason behind the increasing trouble you are having with your visions, and it pains me to see you suffer so."

"I do not know," said Artanis, "for it is not my secret alone to share and there are a great many who would grow angry with me were I to tell Thingol. Indeed, it might turn the tide of the Noldor's loyalty against him and it could be that things would go very ill for Doriath thereafter."

"Yet still I would beg you to speak of it," Celeborn said. "For it is not our custom to keep important matters from the King and though I cannot peer into other's minds as you do, I can see enough to know that a dark secret withheld grows only darker with time. And I grow tired of my loyalties being continually divided between you and my kingdom."

"That may be true," Artanis told him, "and you have given me much reason for contemplation." Yet those words had not placated him as she hoped, rather the last coals of his dissipating anger had been inflamed once again and she could see the anger quicken in his eyes.

"Contemplation?" He grew exasperated, shaking his head and the words spilled forth now. He felt powerless to stop them. "What good has contemplation ever done anyone? Action, Galadriel, I need action!" He took up her hands, holding them tightly in his own. "I love you, madly! I would take you to wife in body this very day! I need no ceremony, only to say the vow and be joined! But how can we marry with this shadow hanging over us? Will you not say it? Will you not speak to Thingol so that your name, and the guilt you carry might be cleared…so that the path to marriage will lie open for us?" And Artanis's heart quelled within her for she knew not whether the doom of Mandos was confined to her or whether it might dig its roots deep into those associated with her as well and she feared that Celeborn might be brought unknowingly under its shadow.

And she trembled at his words in fear, for to join in body meant to join in mind as well and in that instant that they were bound he would know, he would know all of it. "No, Celeborn, it is an impossibility! Why must you ruin everything? Marriage and love ought to be spoken about during times of joy, not in the midst of an argument!" The words were out before she had been able to properly form them into something more eloquent and the hurt was already evident in his eyes.

"Is it so preposterous," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "that I would wish to marry you, the woman I love? And if so, then what business have we being together? If I have thrown away a decade of my life on you then you ought to come out and say it."

"I do not mean 'no, not ever,'" she implored him, rushing to heal the wound, grasping his hand tightly. "I love you, surely, you must know that. If I could wed you then I too would do so this day. And I will wed you if you wish, but when the time is right."

"Please," she stroked his face. "Have we ever quarreled over anything else? It is only this one thing. Can we not lay it to rest once and for all?"

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that I shall forever put my affection for you above that I bear towards my kingdom, for I would beg you recall my words and know that you cannot run forever from whatever it is that plagues you," Celeborn said, anger tight in his voice and she almost thought that she saw tears glimmering unspilled in his eyes.

"I promise you, I will think of something," she said. "It is only for a little while longer."

"I have trusted you all of this time," he said. "When we began our courtship I asked you for everything and you agreed, yet you have given me nothing more than delays and unfulfilled promises." His hands were trembling.

"Celeborn, have patience –" she began.

"You forget, Galadriel," he said standing, "I am not a patient man, and I have waited now nearly twelve years."

"Can you not see that you injure me with your words?" She cried in anguish.

"Can you not see that you injure me with your silence?" He shouted.

With that he was gone, yet his words haunted Artanis for days, then weeks, then months until long after they had reconciled. But their argument was not forgotten and the residual effects of it still weighed heavily upon them both. And for Artanis, as ever, the secret burdened her heart and try though she might, she could shake it, for it haunted her not only in visions and nightmares but now, even in her waking hours.

Thus she did not hear at first, Melian calling her name.

"Artanis…"

"Yes?" The lady's golden head snapped up and the queen laughed.

"I was only remarking upon how your cloth has changed," Melian said, running her fingers over it.

"Has it?" Artanis asked. Her hands had fallen idle but now she picked her shuttle up once more and began to pass it back and forth, back and forth as the loom whirred. The room was empty and quiet, not because she had awoken so early, but because she had stayed up so late. Already sunlight was beginning to filter down through the stone leaves above them and it fell softly upon her fabric. Yet, it did not reflect the light as it had before and instead absorbed it so that it glowed somewhat softly from within, but only when touched by the light. She still had not managed to make it absorb shadow but she had made considerable progress.

"Goodness, you really have been off in some wonderland of your own mind haven't you?" Melian said, her laugh like the chime of bells, and Artanis could not help but smile upon hearing it, though her thoughts had been grey.

"Yes, I suppose that it has changed," she said with a smile.

"The influence of my nephew perhaps?" Melian said with a small smile as she grasped Artanis's hand, stopping the movement of the shuttle. Her stormy azure eyes turned to the Noldo maid's and Artanis felt the familiar pressure on her mind. But she had grown and Melian was not as easily able to see her thoughts as she used to. Artanis grinned as the queen was forced to withdraw, laughing as she did so.

"Melian that is private!" Artanis said with a blush. "I assure you, you would not wish to see it."

"You are quite fond of him," the Queen said with a smile, returning to her own loom at Artanis's side and taking up her shuttle once more.

"Yes," Artanis replied, but her pause before she had given answer caused Melian to favor her with a questioning glance.

"You are more than fond of him then," the queen said gently. "Is your heart confused Artanis?" How easily the Maia had discerned her troubles and Artanis's hands trembled.

"I…I believe that I…love him," she blurted out, slamming her shuttle down upon the loom rather more loudly than she had intended, her hands clasped in her lap, breathing hard. There. It was out now.

"Oh?" Melian paused, gently, setting her own shuttle down and she stood, coming around to sit beside Artanis. There was something in her tone that was so motherly it almost reminded Artanis of Earwen and she reminded herself that Melian was, after all, a mother as well. She felt the gentle touch of the queen's hand upon her arm. "Surely that is nothing to be sad over," she began to say but the words began to tumble from Artanis's mouth now and she seemed entirely powerless to stop them.

"Yet I have not yet spoken those words to him, though he has spoken them to me! I knew it would never be a mere dalliance, he and I, but…I didn't expect, oh," she sighed dejectedly, feeling for all the world as though she wished to cry like a child, "I am not sure what I expected at all."

And after a little while had passed Melian spoke, saying, "how truly it is said that the light of the two trees is intertwined in your hair," with deft hands she wove the strands into an intricate braid while Artanis sat still. "I can remember them with such depth and detail when I look at you my sunlight child. Truly, it brings such joy to my heart." And Artanis smiled at the queen's words, for they had lightened her heart a bit.

"What should I do?" She asked the queen. Melian laughed in reply.

"Well," she said, continuing to plait Artanis's golden hair, "that is up to you, and depends upon what you want. Do you not wish Celeborn to know that you love him?"

"I do," Artanis replied, "but…I worry that…I do not want him to have loved me in vain. For lately he speaks of marriage but… how can I? I can't…I can't imagine it, a husband, a family, elflings…" The thought had long haunted her, that perhaps she who had been marred by death would not be able to bear life. Yet, she comforted herself, there are female march wardens who bear children.

"Do you not think that you deserve happiness?" Melian asked, her voice suddenly growing tense. She dropped the heavy braid against Artanis's back. "Artanis," she turned so that she could look into the Noldo's eyes and Artanis saw that the queen was concerned. "You need not listen to the woeful words and decrees of your kinsmen Artanis," Melian implored her. "There is happiness enough for you here if only you will embrace it. If you and Celeborn wish to marry then you can certainly depend on the support of Thingol and I."

"It is," Artanis said, "that I fear I will ruin Celeborn's happiness, or else that I have already ruined it. It would have been better for him if he had never loved me." She had been so troubled that she had spoken further than she had intended regarding the secret she bore but now she found that she could not retreat, or else did not wish to do so. And Melian looked at her quizzically in light of those cryptic words but Artanis wondered if she had finally found the courage to say it. Her heart hammered within her chest, almost as if it were fighting its way out, just as the secrets were.

"There is some woe that lies upon you and your kin," Melian said, her voice deep and urgent. "That I can see in you, but all else is hidden from me; for by no vision or thought can I perceive anything that passed or passes in the West; a shadow lies over all the land of Aman, and reaches far out over the sea. Why will you not tell me more? Will you not free yourself? Not even now that love lies within your grasp?"

"That woe is past," said Artanis; "and I would take what joy is here left, untroubled by memory. And maybe there is woe enough yet to come, though still hope may seem bright." For still she was unsure, unsteady, and she worried what her brothers would think, what her cousins might do.

"I believe not that the Noldor came forth as messengers of the Valar, as was said at first: not though they came in the very hour of our need," Melian said, her gaze penetrating and intense, her grip on Artanis's hands tighter than was comfortable. "For they speak never of the Valar, nor have their high lords brought any message to Thingol, whether from Manwe, or Ulmo, or even from Olwe the King's brother, and his folk that went over the sea. For what cause, Artanis, were the high people of the Noldor driven forth as exiles from Aman? Or what evil lies on the sons of Feanor that they are so haughty and so fell? Do I not strike near the truth?"

And Artanis could feel Melian's mind working upon her own. A moment had presented itself, a moment which she might take advantage of here when there was no one, not her brothers nor her cousins, nor anyone else to control what she might say and might not say. But dare she do it? Finrod's words echoed in her mind, _her…visions…they are getting worse, far worse. Hardly a day goes by anymore when she does not collapse, convulsing. How can we trust her when she could so easily and accidentally betray us?_ Yet stronger, she found, than her brother's worries and the threats of her cousins was the desire that was growing in her own heart, that hope that Melian had reminded her of, that she might marry Celeborn and be happy here. She had decided.

"Near," she said, hardly able to believe her own audacity, "save that we were not driven forth, but came of our own will, and against that of the Valar. And through great peril and in despite of the Valar for this purpose we came: to take vengeance upon Morgoth, and regain what he stole," and though her heart trembled at the words that she spoke, she felt immediately that a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders for long had she struggled in her own mind over the lies and half truths that she and her brothers had told the Sindar and, now that she found that she had approached the precipice, she could not willingly return from whence she had came but, instead, felt compelled to tell the truth, not only to relieve her own burden of guilt, but because the Sindar had the right to know and she would no longer willingly betray her friends and much less would she willingly betray her lover.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, for still she felt great anxiety at the story she meant to impart, and she said, "Very well, many times have you spoken to me on this matter and many times I have denied you the truth but I find that I am no longer able to do so and if it please you then I shall tell you the entire tale." Yet despite what she had said, her heart was still beating like a drum and she wondered if she would be able to find the courage after all or if it would desert her.

"You will speak at last?" Melian asked, her voice gentle, for she could very well see with what trepidation the Noldorin girl spoke and she half feared that Artanis would fall silent once more and refuse to speak.

"Yes," Artanis said, her heart pounding now, her breath coming in gasps. "Yes, I will speak. I will speak." She raised her eyes to the queen's, imploring her. "But I beg you Melian, bring Thingol and Celeborn quickly, before I lose my courage, for already it is fading."

"Of course," Melian said before darting out into the corridor. She returned momentarily, having sent a messenger to the king and prince, and sat with Artanis, holding her hands in her own while they waited for what seemed to be an interminably long while.

And, whatever doubts she may have had about speaking were swept away by the entrance of Thingol for the first words out of his mouth were, "you will speak." And it was a command, not a question, given in such a tone of authority that it might have given Morgoth himself pause.

Melian tugged gently on Artanis's hand and the two of them moved to sit on a bench across from where Thingol had seated himself. Momentarily, Celeborn entered as well and Artanis found herself quite unable to meet his gaze, though it settled upon her briefly, and he moved to sit beside the king. Better to get it over and done with, Artanis thought, now that it had been decided. She drew in a shuddering breath to steady her nerves but it was Thingol who spoke first and his words were not what she would have expected.

"I am glad," he said, "that you have at last come to this decision Artanis. For I would hope that you, who are blood of my brother's blood, know that I love and esteem you as my own daughter, though long have you hidden this secret from me. But how am I to protect my people if I cannot understand what I am protecting them from? And I worry for your sake as well, for I have watched you blossom here as a new flower in spring, and I grew concerned at the frost that seemed to be wilting you. I assure you that you shall feel better after you have spoken. For secrets weigh most heavily not upon those for whose sake they are kept, or on those who are denied their knowledge, but upon those who keep them."

Artanis nodded and swallowed, her throat feeling like sand, and looked up into the King's kind eyes.

"While I was in conversation with Melian this evening I realized that I could no longer in good conscience withhold what I know any longer. It is precisely because you welcomed me so kindly and because of the love that your people have shown to me that I have at last reached this conclusion, though it is belatedly that I have done so and for that I most humbly beg your forgiveness," she managed to choke out and Thingol nodded solemnly.

"That is well," he said. "And all of us here are made happy by your decision."

"Yes," Artanis said, nodding. "I want you to be happy, though I do not know..." And she glanced towards Celeborn, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, but she could discern nothing in their depths.

"Finwe is dead," she blurted out. She had not known where to start and, for some reason, that had seemed to be the thing of most importance, the thing that had surfaced first in her mind. There was a collective intake of breath by the three of them that made the silence that followed her words all the more apparent, and she felt Melian's hand tighten upon her own, so tight that she thought the bones might break and she watched as Thingol, clearly stricken, tilted his head up towards the ceiling, blinking back tears. Celeborn merely glanced wildly between his aunt, his uncle, and Artanis herself, unsure, it seemed, of what exactly such news might signify.

Thingol propped his elbows on his knees and his head sank down into his hands so that his face was concealed for a while but his shoulders trembled and, at last, he looked up at her with confused, red-rimmed eyes and asked, "how?" It was strange indeed to hear that normally firm voice so shaded with doubt.

"It was Morgoth," she said, "Melkor. He…the Valar trusted him, and when they unchained him…"

"What cause would he have to kill my friend?" Thingol shouted, a strangled cry, his sadness being supplanted by anger. "What grudge did he hold against Finwe?"

"Melkor needs no reason for evil," Melian said hurriedly to placate her spouse, for Thingol looked now as though he wished to either scream in anger or cry in sorrow and there was no telling which course of action he would embark upon for he likely did not know himself how to feel or what to do, Artanis certainly hadn't when she had first heard the news.

"There…there was a reason," Artanis stammered. "And that is why the Feanorians are so fell. It was my uncle, Feanor, Finwe's son, the high prince of the Noldor. He made something that Morgoth wanted, the Silmarils, and Morgoth was determined to have them at whatever cost. And it is the existence of the Silmarils that I have heretofore hidden."

"And is that why Finwe lost his life?" Thingol cried, incensed. "How could these…these Silmarils as you call them, have been so precious that his life was valued the lesser?"

"There is nothing that Melkor esteems," Artanis said, her own heart troubled now at having been given cause to recall her grandfather's death. "Not life nor anything else, save his own power. For the Silmarils are gems, three in number, that Feanor created and imbued with the light of the two trees. They were hallowed by Varda herself, so that they burn the hands of any mortal or evil creature, or of any who are unworthy of their possession and yet all who looked upon them desired them, so magnificent were they. And their method of manufacture was so secret that even Aule himself was unable to reproduce their likeness." Melian, Thingol, and Celeborn were all listening intently now and so she continued her story without stopping, though she could already feel that it was exhausting her.

"Melkor, perhaps viewing Feanor's paranoia as an opportunity, began to spread rumors that Fingolfin meant to usurp Feanor's place as Finwe's heir. And my father grew very frightened at this, for he knew that his eldest brother had a quick temper and moreover, that he had grown paranoid that someone might try to steal his Silmarils, for many had grown extraordinarily covetous of them. So my father closeted my family at our estate in Tirion and my brothers and I were hardly able to come and go, certainly not as we pleased, and prohibited from having any contact with our cousins, the sons of Feanor.

Hearing the rumors that Melkor had spread, Feanor grew enraged and threatened Fingolfin's life. Thus were the seeds of discord that had been sown long ago by Miriel's passing, for which Feanor has never forgiven her, and my grandfather's marriage to Indis, for which my uncle never did forgive my grandfather, fanned into full flame and the Noldor began to craft weapons, anticipating that there would be some battle between the supporters of Feanor and the supporters of Fingolfin. But the Valar grew wroth at Feanor for his pride and his anger and thus they banished him to Formenos and Finwe followed him to show his support for his eldest son. With them they took the Silmarils, locked in a chest and under heavy guard."

"At this my mother grew very frightened and begged my father to withdraw our household to Alqualonde and there seek refuge with our Telerin family where we might be out of the way of whatever trouble my father's older brothers might cause. But my father, perhaps having some sense of foreboding about what was to come and how his people would require him in that hour of need, decided that we would remain in Tirion, though we lived nearly as shut ins there, prisoners in our own house."

"With Feanor and Finwe both having withdrawn to Formenos, Fingolfin was named king in absentia, with the support of my father and of the Telerin royalty, my mother's family. But this seemed only to confirm Feanor's suspicions about his brothers and he grew very fell for a while, seeming to trust no one, or so we heard, and perhaps it was that distrust that saved him from Melkor's designs, for the Vala approached Feanor in Formenos, seeking to further convince him of Fingolfin's ill intentions, yet this time Feanor saw through Melkor's plans and perceived the truth of them, that Melkor's true intention was to obtain the Silmarils for himself. Having realized this, he accepted the Valar's invitation to make peace with Fingolfin and returned to Valinor, whereupon Fingolfin conceded the position of crown prince to Feanor, who accepted."

"But, after Feanor had turned Melkor out, and while he traveled to Valinor to make his peace, Melkor had fled south to seek out Ungoliant, the great spider and, even as Feanor and Fingolfin shook hands and made their peace, the light was suddenly gone from the sky and night came upon us all at once, as though the light of the two trees had been entirely extinguished and, as you know, and as we later found out, that was precisely what had happened, for Ungoliant had sucked them dry of sap. The Valar then begged Feanor to surrender to them the Silmarils, so that they might revive the trees from the light encased within them. But he refused and, we soon found that it would not have mattered at all if he hadn't done so, for while we were all distracted over the destruction of the trees, Melkor and Ungoliant had gone to Formenos, and word soon arrived that they had slain Finwe, my grandfather, as he sought to deny them entrance to the chamber where the Silmarils were kept. They then stole the Silmarils and fled across the Helcaraxe."

"I beg you," Thingol said, "pause for a moment and allow me to collect myself and my thoughts. For this is the darkest news that I have ever had the misfortune to hear." And Artanis fell silent, glad for the reprieve, for she had never told the tale before and doing so, she found, exhausted her beyond measure. For not only was she sorrowful to break this news to her most beloved friends, but it was painful for her to recall her grandfather's death, the sundering of her family, and that time of great fear and uncertainty.

Hesitantly Artanis looked towards Celeborn, hoping to judge his reaction, fearing that his heart would be turned against her and, truthfully, in her heart of hearts she knew that it was not only because she had been forbidden to tell, but because she had feared losing Celeborn's love that she had staid her tongue this long. His eyes flickered towards hers and she had feared seeing anger there, for he was quick with that emotion, but instead she found that she could read nothing in his eyes, though there was certainly no hatred and for that, at least, she was grateful.

After some time, Thingol leaned forward once more, composed now, though there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and resting his elbows on his knees, he bade her continue. Beginning again she said, "After Melkor fled, all of my people named him Morgoth, which means dark enemy of the world in our tongue."

"Determined to retake the Silmarils, the Noldor assembled a great host, of which my brothers and I took part, though my motivation was more of a longing to see this land than to reclaim the jewels and Finrod was the most reluctant of us all, and so we left Valinor determined to undo Morgoth at last."

"Yet I had no love for Feanor, for I resented the divisions that he had created within my family. And, what was more, he had, in the past, made several overtures to me that I deemed less than appropriate given our close degree of consanguinity and the fact that he was married. Furthermore, after Morgoth had stolen the Silmarils, he levied a great deal of blame for the loss of the Silmarils upon the Valar themselves and he railed against them, persuading many of the Noldor that the Valar had abandoned them and that they must avenge the wrongs done them by Melkor by their own hands. But, as I have said, I had no love for Feanor and did not hold with his beliefs and so I traveled in the host of Fingolfin, son of Finwe, whose members included Turgon and Fingon as well as my brothers, and Feanor's host marched ahead."

She paused, for now she had come to the real moment of truth and, whether because of the immense emotional toll that the story had already taken on her, or because she was steadily loosing her courage, or because the greater part of her fear of the loss of their love lay not in relating what others had done, but in relating her own part in the sins of the Noldor, she found that she could not bring herself to relate the rest of the tale.

"There were …many women and children with us and so we could not move as fast as the Feanorians," she said instead. "By the time that we reached Alqualonde, the last ship had already sailed, leaving us with no other way to continue except to cross the Helcaraxe. Thus we knew that Feanor and his sons had not entirely forgiven his brothers or their children and the wounds that existed between the princes of the Noldor were reopened and have not yet healed; perhaps they never shall." It was out, finished, part of it the truth, part of it a wretched lie.

"Now you know," she said, "the true motivations of the sons of Feanor, that they are bent upon avenging the theft of the Silmarils with all their being and will. And you know also of Finwe's death and of the true source of discord between the Noldorin princes." Having said that, she fell silent, exhausted, and it seemed that the others gathered there had grown just as tired from the listening as she had from the telling. Already the guilt was beginning to sink in once more, though she did feel some measure of relief, as if part of the burden, at least, was gone, though the greater part remained.

Thingol sighed, shaking his head, looking wearier in that unspeaking silence that she had ever seen him and at last he spoke, saying; "your father remained behind?"

"Yes," she said. "For my brothers were determined to go out of their friendship with the sons of Fingolfin and I was determined to go out of my wish to explore this land and so my father remained behind so that my mother would not lose her entire family at once and so that the Noldor would not be left kingless."

"So your father is the High King of the Noldor now," Thingol said softly.

"In Aman, yes," she replied, releasing a shuddering breath.

"That is well," Thingol said, "for he sounds as though he is a wise man, wiser than his brothers at least, wiser even than Finwe perhpas."

"He is," she replied.

"And you have done an extraordinarily cruel thing to your parents by leaving them, you and all of your brothers," Thingol said tersely. Artanis averted her eyes out of shame and no one spoke in the ensuing silence. Then did they all sit in unspeaking silence for a long while, contemplating all that she had said until Thingol, bid them leave and she and Celeborn walked back to his chambers hand in hand, though they did not speak to one another.

"Still he loves her," Thingol said, watching them go. "And I know not whether he has spoken of it to her in those words, but love it is, and it could be called no other."

"Indeed that is so," Melian replied. "They go now, almost certainly to quarrel in private, yet you know Celeborn even as I do, like a son, and you know that when he has given his heart to something that he has given it without reservation, in its entirety. He could no sooner be turned from Artanis than a hurricane could be turned from its path and, indeed, he shall not be turned from it unless it was by her own hand and it would take a far greater betrayal even than this to accomplish that feat."

"And as much as I wish them the greatest of joy I fear that theirs is an ill fated love that can end in none other than doom," Thingol said sorrowfully, "for the news that we have learned is evil indeed and yet…it still seems to me that parts of this story are missing and there is still some guilt or darkness that hangs over Artanis. I find that my regard for her is greatly lessened."

"This is a great matter," Melian said, "greater indeed than the Noldor themselves understand; for the Light of Aman and the fate of Arda lie locked now in these things, the work of Feanor, who is gone. They shall not be recovered, these Silmarils, I foretell, by any power of the Eldar; and the world shall be broken in battles that are to come, ere they are wrested from Morgoth. See now! Feanor they have slain, and many another, as I guess; but first of all the deaths they have brought and yet shall bring was Finwe your friend. Morgoth slew him, ere he fled Aman. And now we live in the shadow of death."

And, hearing the words again, Thingol was silent, for he was filled with great foreboding and at length he said: "Now at last I understand the coming of the Noldor out of the West, at which I wondered much before. Not to our aid did they come, save by chance; for those that remain in Middle-earth the Valar will leave to their own devices, until the uttermost need. For vengeance and redress of their loss the Noldor came. Yet all the more sure shall they be as allies against Morgoth, with whom it is not now to be thought that they shall ever make treaty."

But Melian said: "Truly for these causes they came; but for others also. Beware the sons of Feanor! The shadow of the wrath of the Valar lies upon them; and they have done evil, I perceive, both in Aman and to their own kin. A grief but lulled to sleep lies between the princes of the Noldor."

"What is that to me?" Thingol answered her. "Of Feanor I have heard but report, which makes him great indeed. Of his sons I hear little to my pleasure; yet they are likely to prove the deadliest foes of our foe."

"Their swords and their counsels shall have two edges," said Melian.

*****

Celeborn's chambers were silent and they remained silent even after he and Galadriel had returned to them, for it was a while before either had the energy or the courage to speak. Celeborn sat for a long while, simply staring into the fire and, after some time, Artanis moved to sit at his side.

Her conscience weighed heavily upon her for she had not told the entire tale and still Thingol was ignorant, they were all ignorant of the oath and of the doom of Mandos and of the fact that the Feanorians would not hesitate to kill other elves. Until Thingol knew that, they were all still very much in danger. Yet how could she tell that tale? Even Morgoth's destruction of the trees was not as dark and bloody a crime as what Feanor had done to the Teleri, what she had done to her father's kin. She rubbed her hands together absentmindedly and turned to look at Celeborn. He was watching her intently with those green eyes that she loved so much. But his eyes did not look as they always did - something had changed.

"You are upset with me," She said, reaching out, but he turned away from her hand. "It is…what I deserve." She did not need to prompt him any further to speak.

"Perhaps Thingol did not ask because he is consumed by grief at the news of his friend's death but I have no such compunctions," he said, standing and pacing back and forth, hand to his chin. "What did it profit you to keep such a secret? You are guilty of nothing save secrecy. Why could you not tell us of the Silmarils?" His actions were quick, fueled by anxiety and, as usual, he had hit frighteningly close to the mark for she had concealed her part of the blame.

"Because my cousins do not wish Thingol to know," she said. "They made us swear an oath of secrecy, and I swore out of love for Finrod, because he wished to salvage what remains of the house of Finwe." She hated to say it, knowing that it was such a terribly inconsiderate thing to say, but it was the truth.

"But why did your lot have any need to keep the secret of the Silmarils, even if the Feanorians wished it? What harm could they do you that would force you swear an oath against your conscience?"

"Celeborn," she stood, her voice firm and her eyes firmer, going to him and taking his arm, stilling his pacing. "You do not know them as I do. The sons of Feanor have gone mad! Maglor is kind of heart and Maedhros can be made to see reason, but the rest of them are very dangerous indeed and there is no boundary that I believe they would hesitate to cross." Her beloved looked into her eyes and her heart pounded in fear, for she saw him working the problem over in his mind.

"Nothing?" He murmered. She nodded.

"If ever a Silmaril were to enter into Doriath…" she said, "I would fear very much for the safety of everyone here. Feanor went mad before the end and it seems his madness did not die with him. I am frightened; they frighten me!"

"Still, you could have broken with the decision of your brothers, with the oath of secrecy. Part of the blame is yours," he said, his eyes flashing quickly towards hers. "How could you look my uncle in the eyes and lie to him about his dearest friend being alive for so many years when in fact he had perished? How could you do that?" There was incredulity in his voice, anger, hurt. "Thingol is the only father I have ever known!"

"And Finwe was my grandfather!" She cried. "Do you think that it did not pain me as well?"

He turned towards her, still agitated saying, "I thought your loyalty lay here, with Doriath, with Thingol, with me, was I wrong?" She had never seen him so upset.

"It does, Celeborn! I swear it to you," she replied. It was the truth. "After what I have just told you, after the anger that I will undoubtedly face from my relatives, do you still doubt me? They will slander me. I will never be welcomed by my cousins, any of them, ever again, and I will have injured the trust of my brothers most cruelly." It hurt her to see him so upset, to know that she was the cause of his pain, and she wished that she could go back in time and fix all of it. But, more than that, she feared that his love towards her would warp to hatred and she sought only to placate him by disguising her deception, for she knew full well that there was much that she still kept secret and she hid it in a desperate bid to keep him. "All of this I am willing to endure for you!"

"You endangered the lives of my people. You endangered this kingdom," he said, his anger still contained, but his eyes were fierce.

"Celeborn, meleth nin," she said and he seemed to flinch at her use of his name, "I did not make the right choice. I know that. But I cannot change what I have done. Thingol knows all of it now. The only thing I can do is to move forward." The long silence stretched between them and he said nothing, staring blankly into the fire.

"Feanor," he said, grinding out the name between his teeth as he crossed his arms over his chest. She had been expecting this, had seen the flash of fury in his eyes when she had spoken of it earlier. "You said that he made overtures towards you, inappropriate ones."

"When he…" she sighed and sank down to sit upon the cushions on the floor, feeling the weariness down to her bones. "When he had the idea to craft the Silmarils he did not originally plan to use the light of the trees as their essence…he…he asked me for three strands of my hair, and this he meant to encase at their core. Thrice he asked me…and thrice I did refuse him. It was a slight he never forgave." She dropped her eyes in shame, for she had suspected that Feanor had wished for more than her hair, and the thought reviled her.

Celeborn turned away from the fire and towards her. "You never told me that he…that he was inappropriate towards you," he said and his voice was soft, his anger slowly ebbing, replaced, it seemed, by concern. "What…did he…touch…"

"Not like that, no," she shook her head and laughed a bitter laugh, reaching up to wipe away tears that threatened to spill. Perhaps she had never acknowledged, even to herself, how much it had affected her. "He…" she shrugged, "it was something in the way he looked at me, the way that he touched me unbidden, even though it was always in the most innocuous of places: the hand, or the elbow, or the shoulder. It was the fact that his touch always lingered just a little longer than it ought to have, that his gaze strayed too frequently, that he contrived to find himself alone with me more often than I deemed natural." She sighed.

"I know that he loved Nerdanel, that he was married, and that he was my uncle besides, but with me it did not seem to be about love at all, or any affection really…it was, almost as if I was to him as his Silmarils were, that I was an instrument to please him, to magnify his glory, and that he meant to confine me for himself alone, just as he locked the Silmarils away so that only he could ever have them. And I doubted not at all that, if I ever gave him the chance…the chance to…to take more than what was appropriate, that he would have done it in a heartbeat."

She had never seen Celeborn with a look of pity upon his face but she was certain that she saw it now. "Galadriel," he breathed, "you have endured all of this in solitude…for so very long. You were so reticent, so frightened of intimacy when first we met and I did not know the reason. You could have told me."

"No…I…" she stammered, unsure of what it was that she was trying to say, the tears beginning to fall. He had drawn truth out of her, certainly, but she had not expected it to be this truth. It was the first time that she had ever felt truly weak before him. Celeborn knelt before her and wiped the tears away. "I thought that you would find me disgusting because of it," she said, "and…and I thought myself hideous because of it. And that on top of all of the terrible things I have done, how I have abandoned my parents, how I traipsed off foolishly into middle earth."

"Is that what this secret keeping was all about?" Celeborn asked, drawing her into his embrace, pressing her head into his chest. There was something so very comforting about his arms around her, about his hand in her hair, the kiss he placed on the top of her head. "Were you afraid what I would think of you?"

"Of course I was," she said, drying her eyes on his tunic.

"There now," he said, gently and it was a strange but welcome thing to hear gentleness from him. "You were put in a terrible situation not of you own doing," he said, "I do not know what I would have done had I stood in the same position." And she knew she had been forgiven.

"It is over and done; I know now and I love you," he said.

"And I love you," she replied, feeling the warmth of the fire's heat against her closed eyelids, hearing its crackling in the comforting silence. He rose, carrying her to the bed and she watched, sleepily, through half-lidded eyes as he tucked the blankets about her and then joined her himself.


	11. Children of the Stars

  
**Children of the Stars**

In Cavern's Shade: 11th Chapter

*****

"Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart,

and try to have patience, if you can."

-J.R.R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales

*****

**Author's note:** One of the really hard things about writing this story is that I know where I want the characters to end up but I have to constantly remind myself that they're not there yet. I think that something we all grow into in our lives is realizing how we affect people and learning that our actions and words can have a bigger impact than we realize or anticipate. That is something I really wanted for Galadriel in this story. Right now she is sort of stuck in this mindset of 'oh Celeborn doesn't like me keeping secrets' and 'oh Finrod doesn't like my visions' but she never really stops and considers why that is and even though Celeborn sometimes gets very blunt with her about it she doesn't seem to get it because she doesn't really believe or understand yet that, yes, the things she does really do hurt people and, yes, her actions do have permanent and lasting consequences. Part of that is because she doesn't realize, or want to realize, how powerful she truly is because that would mean taking responsibility for things she doesn't want to face. Tolkien describes young Galadriel as very prideful and, to me, pride isn't really thinking you are better than somebody else so much as it is something akin to what I have described. For Celeborn, this is really frustrating because he lives in a world where his choices as a military commander and as a prince, and Thingol's choices as a king, often have life and death consequences. He feels a good deal of guilt over that (as we'll explore in Chapter 16) and it's one of the reasons he is so obsessive over the issue with the dwarves.

*****

"Thingol would be a wiser king if he would but heed Melian's advice a little more often," Celeborn said with a laugh as he walked with Artanis's arm in his. "Even on such small matters. Still, I am almost glad that he did not listen, if only because I had the delight of seeing the look of consternation on his face as that old horse dumped him flat on his rear."

"Well who was to know the horse was lame if it did not limp?" Artanis replied with a laugh.

"Melian knew," the Sinda replied.

"Your poor auntie. For all her foresight her husband still refuses to listen. Fie! That is the way of all of you male folk. My father, as well, would be all the better if he would just lend an ear to my mother but a little more often."

"Never fear, daughter of Earwen, for I swear that I shall forever lend an ear to your advice, even when I find it is not to my liking," Celeborn replied in mock-seriousness, though she knew that he meant what he said.

"Forever?" Artanis asked, raising a golden brow. "Still planning a wedding are you? What makes you so sure that I would agree?" It was a topic he still had not dropped, but one with which she was gradually becoming more comfortable.

"Perhaps it is the thirteen years in which you have passed every day in my bed, and the fact that, when the sun dawns, you will return there this night as well, Galadriel."

"For the sake of the Valar!" She slapped his arm. "I certainly shall not marry you if you keep calling me that."

"Ah, I had hoped it would grow on you," Celeborn said with a mischievous grin. At this point, Artanis had trouble telling whether he used the name because he liked it or precisely because he knew that she did not like it and wished to tease her. "Then if you won't be a lady of light, come with me," he growled, wrapping his arms around her and picking her up, swinging her about in a circle, "and marry me, and let me transform you into a creature of the night!" Artanis laughed, swatting at him until he put her down.

"I don't know that I will ever adjust to your nocturnal ways," she laughed. Even after all of these years in Menegroth I often find myself weary in the evenings while it seems that you find yourself weary in the mornings."

"Are you weary now?" He queried.

"No, not at all." She replied.

"Good; I have plans for you later," he growled in her ear.

"Watch your tongue. There are elflings about, Celeborn." She said with a smile. They stopped by the river, where the aforementioned elflings were folding paper into boats and floating them, laden with candles, down the river. Colorful lanterns floated through the air, buoyed up by the gasses from the burning candles within them. Celeborn stood, watching the lanterns rise. The festival of the stars was one of his favorite nights of the year.

"Unlike light, darkness has no source," He said, lighting one of the candles, "it is merely the absence of light. But light is not the absence of darkness, for it is still there, even if it cannot be perceived." They bent down and he showed her how to make the paper boats, strong agile hands guiding her small nimble ones. He watched as she lit her candle, the flickering of the small flame illuminating her beauty. Together they set the boat in the water and watched it float down the stream.

"What was it like, before the sun and the moon?" She asked as they continued to walk along the bank, watching the boats.

"It was peaceful, quiet." He said. "I used to just lay under the stars and marvel at them, wondering how far away they are and what they are made of. Imagining that I could build a ship and that I would float up into the air, voyage to the stars and that, perhaps, I would discover entirely new worlds there full of marvelous things."

"You were never afraid of the dark?" She asked.

"Not at all," he said with a smile, nearly broaching the topic of his fear for the day, but he dismissed it as childish and worried that she would think it ignorant, and so he remained silent

"I used to be frightened of the night when I was a child," she said, "even though we had the light of Telperion. I would imagine that there were monsters hiding beneath my bed and my Adar would have to comfort me. Once my mother even gave me one of her old perfume bottles filled with water and told me it was 'monster spray'. Child that I was, I used it religiously every night. Something Finrod will never let me live down." Celeborn laughed.

"I cannot imagine you afraid of such a thing." He said. "What is it like there, in Valinor?" He asked. "You hardly ever speak of it and yet I have always wondered for, if Thingol hadn't gone and gotten himself lost in the forest then I might very well have been born in Aman myself."

"It is beautiful, I suppose." She said, but did not elaborate. The familiar feeling of guilt began to creep into her conscience. She was deceiving him, deceiving all of them, and she suddenly felt as though she wanted to shrink until she was the size of an ant and crawl away to someplace where she might hide. The silence grew long and Celeborn sensed her discontent, yet he had the good grace and tact not to inquire as to its source and, instead, bent down to show her a large lavender flower, globelike in appearance, that seemed to shine with a pale silver light from within.

"Moon lilies." He said. "They only bloom at this time of year, one of the reasons that summer nights like this are my favorite." He lay down in the grass amongst the lilies and she lay down beside him, watching the myriad lanterns floating in the sky and the twinkling of the stars, far beyond. She could gradually feel her disquiet creep away until it seemed as distant as the stars themselves.

"There," he said, pointing at a bright spray of stars. "The great wave of Balar."

"What?"

"You don't know them?" Celeborn asked.

"Know what?"

"The constellations," he said. "Here give me your hand." And, taking her hand in his he traced the shape of a wave, outlined by stars in the sky. "That is the great wave of Balar. Can you see it now?"

"Yes." She said.

"And riding that wave is Ulmo, Lord of Waters." He traced the shape of the Valar with her fingers and she imagined the bright lines forming in the sky, a painting of stars.

"What is that bright red one?" She asked, moving their hands to point at the star.

"That is the topmost star in the left antler of the white stag." He said, tracing the entire body of the animal, then moving to its right and tracing a new shape. "What do you think that is?" He asked.

"Wait, show me again." She said, and he traced the outline again. "A… a bow. It's a bow."

"Very good. And, what is this one?" He traced a more complicated shape now and Artanis creased her brow in concentration.

"Someone holding the bow…hunting the stag… it must be Orome."

"You are a natural." He said, turning to look at her, still holding her hand.

"Come with me. I have other things to show you." He stood, pulling her up with

him and they walked through the playing elflings towards the main area of the fair, the sound of flutes drifting on the wind. "This is one of the occasions when our brethren, the Avari, and the green elves elves come to Menegroth, so there may be a great many things that will interest you." He said.

Indeed, the wares peddled at the Moon Festival were a wonder entirely new to Artanis. It caused her to recall the way that she had felt as a child when, clinging to her mother's hand, she had been led through a house of wonders which one of her mother's very distant cousins, a rather eccentric fellow, had put on display. Earwen had laughed boldly at the strange creatures assembled there: birds of bright colors, great cats, elegant and dangerous, with spotted coats, an odd creature that looked like a duck but had fur like a dog. There were elves who could juggle swords and breathe fire.

But, most interesting of all had been an exhibit titled "The strange creatures of Ennor." Therein, elves were portraying creatures that they had never seen but only heard of from the Valar. A tall elf wearing the bark of a tree all over his body and a long beard made of hair and leaves, walked about slowly, speaking strange words in a deep and monotonous voice. Artanis had shied away behind Earwen's skirts, fearful that this creature might be real. Also there had been an elf who was squatting as if to show that he was short, his face covered in great mats of false, wiry, red hair. But most frightening of all had been the elf called a Moriquendi. His skin was painted black and he wore only a loincloth, crouching on the ground, he looked about feverishly at the spectators with unseeing eyes and knocked stones together, grunting.

"Naneth," a curious Artanis had tugged at her mother's skirts, "why can he not see?"

"Those who turned away from the march live still in Ennor, where the light of the trees cannot penetrate. There is no light at all there but a perpetual night. Some say that, because they have no need for sight, living in darkness, they have gone blind. It is even said that they have forgotten speech and live like animals, without king nor culture." Earwen replied, her voice deep and musical.

"Is it true nana?" Artanis reached up with chubby hands and her mother lifted her, setting her on her hip.

"Nay, I think not. For, even though Elu Thingol was lost, I cannot imagine that the Illuvatar should forget his children. Can you Artanis?"

"Un uh." The toddler replied, shaking her curly golden head.

"And besides, both of your grandfathers remember the people who were sundered from us and they assure me that they are exactly the same as you and me and Finrod and father." Earwen said, kissing Artanis's tiny button nose, "And besides, even if someone does look very very different than you you must never forget that their heart is the same. Do you know what that means?"

"Everyone's got feelings?" Artanis said as she chewed on her fingers and rocked back and forth on chubby bare feet.

"Good girl! That's exactly right!" Earwen squeezed her daughter's hand and then picked her up, balancing the toddler on her hip. "Don't forget it now. Promise me?"

"Promise nana," Artanis had laughed.

The memory brought a smile to her lips. But it was not so much the details that had caused Artanis to recall that moment of her youth, indeed she had seen many things that day that she could no longer recall, and even the bright colors of the exotic animals seemed but blurry shadows in her memory. What she recalled most of all was the way that she had felt. For time itself could neither erase nor dim the memory of the excited palpitations of a child's heart, eyes wide with wonder at never before seen things, or the spark that lit an adventurous spirit and a curious mind.

Now, wandering in the festival grounds outside of Menegroth, the same feeling arose in her for, wherever she looked, there was some new creature, new being, new sight, new sound, new smell. Yet, she shuddered at her recollection of the way that these peoples had been portrayed in Valinor. How ignorant they had all been. If only those who had remained behind could live amongst the elves of Middle Earth, they might have come to see them as she saw them now: no less enlightened and just as wonderful. Perhaps, if there had been no sundering, there would have been no kinslaying.

There were indeed, as Celeborn had said, many different peoples. There were dwarves, which she had only caught glimpses of before in Menegroth, For the dwarves of Nogrod and Belegast did much trade with Doriath. But now they wandered about in large groups and she could not help but stare, for never before had she seen so many of them together. Short and squat they were, coming only to just below her waist, with thick, wiry, red hair that nearly covered their entire faces! Their beards were ornately braided and they wore clothes of coarse brown fabrics with finely made armor, upon which they had engraved words in their strange runes. They carried axes, which were heavier and less beautiful than those of the Sindar, but more suited, she thought, to what she could perceive of their culture. It was not true, she saw, that dwarven females had beards but, from all the hair that sprouted from their heads, one might almost imagine it to be so and they too, she noted, wore armor and carried axes.

In awe, and betraying her Noldorin tastes, she had been drawn to their wares. All manner of things did they sell, wrought in the finest metals and inlaid with precious stones. A kind dwarf with a gruff laugh had shown her many necklaces, set with gemstones and beautifully wrought, though of quite a different style than anything she had ever seen.

"If there is anything that you want I shall buy it for you." Celeborn said.

"I do not need anything," she said as they moved past a group of green elves. Their clothing was made of leaves and they seemed not to care that they were mostly naked. Some of them had monkeys that sat upon their shoulders and Artanis had gasped in surprise as her golden circlet was unexpectedly snatched from her head by one of these creatures, causing Celeborn to double over in laughter. Its master had laughed merrily and retrieved the trinket from his animal, returning it to Artanis with a twinkling wink and a kind word.

There were Avari as well, though they were few, one tall dark-haired male had with him a forest cat, an enormous, leanly muscled beast with sleek, short black fur. Its eyes had been of the most startling copper color and when it yawned she had seen that its mouth was full of large sharp teeth. Despite her mild fear of the beast, she lingered there for the scent of spices was heavy in the air and, in a moment of sensory indulgence that was strange to her, she yearned to breathe them all in. The spices were sold in the Avari tents, each in its own urn and there must have been hundreds of urns, brimming to the top with vibrantly colored powders and leaves. Birds they had too, some with tails as long as an elf was tall, though not as tall as Thingol, and in the most brilliant shades. Some were a green so bright it seemed almost blinding and others were of a fuchsia deep and rich, with specks of blue as bright as the sea. Though they were called dark elves, she could see nothing dark about them.

"The green elves I have seen around on occasion," she said to Celeborn, "but I have never before seen the Avari. Why do they not come to Menegroth?"

"That is a long tale, and one for another time," Celeborn whispered.

The Nandor were also there, having come from far away, and she had thought that these people too would be savage and so they looked it to her, but she could see by their handiwork that they were very skilled. Knives they sold, blades of smoky topaz, like deep brown unmarred glass, and sharper. The handles were of many different woods, ornately carved in the likeness of forest creatures. One of the artisans had noticed her eyeing, with amazement, a particular blade, small, with a handle of white ash in the shape of a deer, so lifelike she half expected to feel warmth when she touched the hilt.

"Beautiful is it not?" The young Nandorin maid had commented. "My uncle made this one. See these holes?" She gestured to a series of four holes that ran the length of the knife, just above its edge. "Perhaps you have not seen them before for they are of my peoples' own design. But they are very useful, see?" She took an apple from her pocket and sliced through it as easily as if it had been butter. Then she drew the knife out and Artanis was astonished to see that the apple did not stick to the blade but fell away easily in two equal pieces. "They allow a place for air to move as the blade slices through. That way a vacuum is not created, the knife comes away clean, allowing for more accurate cutting."

"This is a fruit knife?" Artanis had asked, stunned that something so beautiful was used for such a mundane task.

"Indeed, but if that is not what you seek we have many other choices." Smiling, the dark haired girl offered a smaller blade of the same fine quartz with an ebony handle. "This one was made by my hand and it is an excellent design for carving wood or stone alike." We have knives for many purposes and all are handcrafted by my people. Hunting knives we have too, but even butter knives we can craft for you." Driven by awe far more than need, Artanis eyed the fruit knife, turning the blade so that the quartz caught the light of the floating lanterns.

"Would you like it?" Celeborn asked.

"Oh, I…I don't need it." Artanis said, though she had taken an immediate affinity to it she did not want to ask Celeborn for such a trivial thing.

"That isn't what I asked you." Celeborn said with a smile, pressing three silver coins into the Nandorin girl's hand. She smiled and kindly thanked them for her business, putting the elegant blade in a fine leather sheath before handing it to her. Artanis felt the light weight of it in her pocket as she had roamed throughout the other tents.

"You didn't have to do that." Artanis said out of a sense of politeness, but she could not deny that she had wanted it.

"I wanted to. Indulge me." He said with a smile and she thanked him. And indulge they did for, as they walked on they came to vendors selling all manner of foods. There were small river trout, salted and roasted over hot coals, skewers of fruit kept on ice, sweet potatoes glazed with honey and sprinkled with seeds, noodles with vegetables, grilled slices of chicken and steak with fresh squeezed lemon, confections and cookies made of fruit and nuts, and all manner of drinks both hot and cold. Celeborn abandoned any pretensions of restraint and bought them without reserve.

Carrying their newly acquired bounty, they passed by Thingol's tents and Artanis saw the more practical purpose of such festivals as Thingol's chief advisors and the high officials of his realm bartered for goods with the lords of the various clans and races so that Doriath would be provisioned with all that it needed for the autumn and winter months, until spring allowed trade to be resumed. Grains and foodstuffs, tar and pitch, all things were bartered for, traded, and commissioned. Indeed, Thingol was no simple woodland king who had been left behind. Rather, he was the lord of a vast empire, teeming with riches, developed cultures, and vast networks of trade and diplomacy. How very different it was, she thought, than what they had assumed they would find had been so very different from the reality.

"Should you not be with them?" She asked with a grin, elbowing her lover.

"I think that the King can manage without me for one evening," he smiled.

Finally they seated themselves a little ways apart from other young couples and families who were enjoying stargazing and Celeborn began to eat with all the delight of a child. Artanis could not help but laugh.

"Try this one." He brandished a half-eaten grilled trout at her.

"The head is still on it." She said with a hint of trepidation as she took it from his hands.

"Well don't eat the head then. I promise, it's good." Artanis took a bite and, to her surprise, found that it was indeed delicious and soon she had devoured the entire thing, sans head, and licked the salty grease from her fingers. Celeborn tore a round cake in two and handed half of it to her. "You can only get these cakes at the Moon Festival but I loved them as an elfling so I would save all of my pocket money and buy as many as I could." He said.

"And did you eat all of them at the same time too?" She asked. The cake was delicious, soft and filled with custard.

"On occasion." He replied. "And it did not generally end well for me."

"I would imagine not." She replied, laughing. The cake was very sweet and too much of it could easily make one sick.

They sat in pleasant silence for a long while, enjoying the festive atmosphere and the beauty of the night but Artanis could tell that Celeborn was brooding, working something over in his mind the way that a smith worked over a sword, folding the thought back upon itself a thousand times to make it strong, hammering it out to make it smooth, honing the edge so as to make it cut deep. She waited, wondering, for it seemed as though he meant to ask her something.

"Hello there!" The merry voice of Beleg strongbow greeted them and they turned to see the man himself approaching, Luthien on his arm and Dairon, Galathil, and Oropher following behind. "Enjoying yourselves I hope."

"We certainly are!" Luthien cried, her grey eyes twinkling merrily as she let out a less-than ladylike laugh, which brought a broad smile to Artanis's face. She was a vision in silver brocade silk, her dark hair hanging in long ringlets, strung with pearls and diamonds, as if she herself were clothed in stars. She at least, Artanis thought, seemed to be having a fabulous time, due not only to the joy of the festival but, it appeared, to how much alcohol she seemed to have imbibed.

"May we join you?" Beleg asked.

"Of course!" Celeborn replied, with a smile as he brandished his hand in a gesture of welcome, and all of their friends seated themselves on the grassy knoll.

"Are you sure we're not interrupting something private?" Galathil asked. He and Oropher elbowed each other, exchanged glances, and began laughing as though they shared some great secret. They too, Artanis noted, seemed to have imbibed quite a good deal of alcohol. "Galadriel," Galathil said, leering at her, and she reached out and slapped his arm in punishment. Oropher watched, seeming bemused, but he met Artanis's eyes on accident and quickly looked away. She knew that he did not approve of her, that he disliked her and her people, but she was grateful that he kept his opinions private and managed to do so with a great deal of tact.

Dairon on the other hand… They were all chatting away happily with Celeborn now, all for Dairon that was. Dairon, the loremaster and minstrel: silent, brooding, sour Dairon.

Celeborn had confided in her that he did not particularly like Dairon, though that was common knowledge. But she could easily have guessed that, for Celeborn was distrustful by nature and did not care for any one else that he deemed to be hiding secret motivations. And, it was no secret that Dairon bore no great love for Celeborn either. She had heard that this was because he disliked Celeborn's aggressive, straightforward manner and he had a certain disdain for those who were disciples of the axe and sword rather than the pen and harp, despite the fact that he was on amiable terms with Beleg and Mablung. However, he was a dear friend of Luthien's and of Celeborn's brother Galathil, himself a herald, and so for that reason Celeborn and Dairon tolerated each other for the sake of their friends.

Artanis had only been around Dairon a few times and thus she did not feel as though she had enough of an experience with him to accurately say whether she liked him or no but she did feel some measure of pity for him, for she recognized the way that he looked at Luthien. She had often been the subject of such glances.

"Artanis, have you heard aught of Finrod lately?" Beleg asked her, his words pulling her out of her thoughts. "For I often wonder how his venture goes in Nargothrond and I should like to go and visit him myself if I can ever find the time."

"Oh Finrod! How I do miss him so!" Luthien chimed in. "Things are always so much more fun when he is around."

"He writes to me often," Artanis told them. "In fact, I have just had a letter from him and by his account things go very well indeed and they are making much progress."

"I am glad to hear it," Beleg said as Luthien, humming to herself, began to plait his hair.

"But my brother does tend to see everything through rose tinted glass," Artanis said with a laugh. "Nargothrond could be falling apart around him and he would still be speaking only of his grand dreams."

"When next I see him I shall be sure to let him know that he has your vote of confidence," Beleg said with a laugh, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Incidentally," Celeborn said, "Artanis and I will soon be making a visit to Nargothrond."

"Is that so?" Beleg asked. "For business or for pleasure?"

"A bit of both actually."

"Ah," the warden said with an intake of breath, having just realized, of course, that Celeborn would be going to speak to Finrod of the Silmarils and wondering, perhaps, if he ought not have questioned. Celeborn felt Galadriel stiffen in his arms. "You must tell me of your visit when you return," Beleg said, hoping to smooth over any discord he may have inadvertently caused. The news of the Silmarils had spread like wildfire throughout Menegroth and, as could have been easily expected, it had been greeted at best with a good deal of consternation and at worst by outright anger. It had made the past few years rather difficult for Galadriel, and Celeborn knew that she was anticipating spending some time away from Menegroth in the company of her family.

And he admitted freely to himself, if not to others, that he too was looking forward to the journey, for his continued association with Galadriel had made him a prime target for Saeros's political attacks and even for the scorn of Oropher, though at least Oropher had the grace to keep the matter between the two of them. Saeros, on the other hand, had no compunctions with making his opinions of Galadriel publicly known.

"We shall certainly be sure to do so," Celeborn replied and, after passing many a happy hour in conversation with their friends, he and Galadriel at last adjourned to their chambers as the sun began to dawn.

"I am very much looking forward to visiting Finrod," Celeborn said after they had returned to their chambers, handing Artanis a glass of the bitter grain liquor that the Sindarin warriors were fond of. She took a sip and it burned her throat something horribly going down but settling in her stomach the fire of it warmed her and seemed even to give her courage.

"As am I," she said simply.

"Are you tired?" He asked her, for she seemed to be weary.

"It is only…my visions are growing worse lately," she confessed.

"It exhausts you," he said, speaking the fear of his heart, noting the weariness in her eyes and she nodded, leaning her head back to rest upon his knee. "But you have grown have you not? You can control them much better than you could when I met you."

"All thanks to Melian's assistance," she said. "She has assured me that it will get better, that I will grow more accustomed to it, that it will not drain me so thoroughly." The silence stretched between them.

"But it will always drain you," he said, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," she replied, taking another drink of the strong alcohol. Celeborn thought for a long time before he spoke.

"Then what can I do to help you?" He asked.

"You are already helping me simply be being you," she replied. "You ground me, anchor me in the temporal, preventing me from slipping fully into the realm of shadows and madness." And she turned a smile up towards him though in her heart she felt sickened by herself, at the lie that she perpetuated.

"Then you shall always have me at your side," he said before kissing her reverently. If only he knew her, truly knew what she had done, how she had betrayed him, Artanis thought, then he would not make her such an extravagant promise nor would he long for her kisses. She sighed and he could tell that she was eager to change the topic.

"Is Dairon always so…so…is he always…" She asked, not quite sure of the word that she wanted to use.

"Sulking? Yes," He said with a small laugh, finding the word for her, "he is always that way and it tries my nerves most severely, all of his keeping silent and murmuring under his breath. If he has something he would like to say then he ought to address it for what is to be gained from that sort of behavior? Only children act thusly."

"Everyone knows that you and he were not fond of each other," she said. "But do not be overly harsh on him Celeborn, for unrequited love is a trial for even those with the strongest of constitutions."

"Unrequited love?" Celeborn asked, both startled and confused. "Not for you I hope?"

"No!" She laughed. "Can you not see that he loves Luthien?" Celeborn shook his head, sitting back, amazed. "You really didn't know?" She exclaimed incredulously but Celeborn merely shook his head again and chuckled.

"How easily you can see into the minds of others. I must admit that I never knew," he confessed, "though I professed to see all that passes within my own realm. Still, it is not good for him to dwell on such a thing if she is unwilling. It would be better if he turned his mind towards other things, and other girls. If she has given him her answer then she has given him her answer, what is he to profit by clinging to false hope?"

"That is all true," she said, "but I do not know what has passed between them and it may be that he has said nothing to her of it at all."

"Then that is very dishonest of him indeed," Celeborn said but Artanis gave him a chiding look.

"Not everyone is so bold as to ply their beloved with such treasures as dwarf fish," Artanis told him and he turned to glower at her.

"That was a very fine fish. I shall never understand why you did not want it," he replied, but he could not quite keep the grin from his face. Artanis leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes, feeling the pleasant warmth of the fire upon her face.

"Have I tired you out?" Celeborn asked.

"Quite," she said with a smile, her eyes still closed. A moment later she felt him rise, carrying her to the bed, and she nestled into the warmth of it, of him. That feeling, of comfort, of safety, was so reminiscent of her childhood, when she would pretend to fall asleep in her father's study and he would lift her and carry her all the way to her room to tuck her into bed. Of course, as an adult she had realized that he had most probably known all along that it was nothing more than a farce, but it had delighted her all the same.

She turned and tucked her head beneath Celeborn's, nestling against his chest. "Still," she said, sleepily, "whether or not you care for Dairon personally, you must admit that he is an extraordinary musician."

"That he is indeed," Celeborn said. "But that is nothing to recommend him to me, for I care very little indeed for musicians and, though I enjoy listening to the music that they produce, I myself find music making to be tedious."

"Your own brother is a herald and a musician!" She said, opening her eyes, but Celeborn grinned.

"Well Galathil is alright I suppose."

"And is not music the pride of the Sindar?"

"How generous of you Noldor to grant that we lowly Sindar do surpass you in one art," Celeborn said wryly, tickling her.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she laughed. "And you are a liar. Beleg tells me that you have a fine singing voice."

"Curses be upon him," Celeborn retorted. "That is a different matter entirely. Those are songs of war, battle cries. They are not proper music, not what Dairon would call music." There was just enough of a hint of bitterness in his tone to draw her suspicion.

"Aha!" She whispered, tapping his nose with her finger. "Is that the source of the bickering between you and he?"

"Nonsense," Celeborn replied, but Artanis could see that she had struck near the truth.

"It is!" She exclaimed.

"Absolutely not," Celeborn replied, but he had blushed a rather vigorous shade of crimson.

"Very well then, sing me something, anything."

"I have not the talents of Dairon or of Galathil," he told her. "Nor would I wish to sing war songs to you."

"And what sort of song would you wish to sing to me?" She asked. He was silent for a moment, looking somewhat displeased before he abashedly replied.

"A song of love," he said reluctantly, "but I do not know any."

"Not a single one?" She queried. He was silent. "You do know one then." She said, grinning like a cat, determined now to draw it out of him.

"You would not like it," he told her.

"Why ever not?" She asked, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"You will say the same thing that you say when I call you Galadriel," he said, "that it is too indulgent. You will not like it, that is, if you can even understand it. It is older than I, and so is the language"

"Please?" She asked him and, as ever, he found himself unable to refuse her and began, slowly, haltingly, in a low and haunting tone.

"In the starlight I felt your heart

Quiver like a bowstring's pulse

In the stars' pale light

You looked at me

The lady with the secret heart

In the forest I have seen you

Beautiful and haunting but cold

Like the edge of a knife so sharp so sweet

The lady with the secret heart"

Artanis shivered at the words, her heart growing chill within her chest as if a sudden foreboding had come over her, for it was not the first time that she had heard that song and well did she know the words. They were in the old language, the language of Cuivenen, the language of the first Teleri, a language remembered now only in song and the Teleri of Aman remembered that song still. The images flashed through her mind: her mother singing that song as she sat by her bed at night, her grandmother singing it as she brushed her hair, the servants of her mother's family singing it as the baked, and washed, and cleaned. Standing on the quay with darkness all around encircling, a black pit, a road leading to nowhere, back and again to nowhere, ever to nowhere and darkness, unknowing, unbeing nowhere. Her skin sloughed off and the blood poured down out of her like candle wax, her organs flopping out like fish upon the dock, wasting their last breaths in futile struggle.

"All of your sorrow, grief, and pain

locked away in the forest of the night

your secret heart belongs to the world

of the things that hide in the dark

of the things that ..."

"Stop! For the sake of the Valar stop damn you!" She cried, and he did, confused, taken aback, hurt even. And though he moved to speak, not a word left his mouth.

"I am sorry," she said suddenly, her voice growing as cold as her heart felt. "You are right…I do not like it. I can't even understand it." The silence hung heavy between them and Artanis felt a dull hollowness in the pit of her stomach as she abruptly turned onto her side, facing away from him, for she knew that she had hurt him, and deeply. And yet he does not yet know how badly I have done so, she thought, blinking away the tears that threatened to rise. How ardently she wished that she could blink away her past as well and yet…had she never come here she would never have met him, loved him. And he would have lived a happier life because of your absence, her heart whispered. It was a maze from which she could not escape. She felt his hand, hovering above her hip, as though he worried over whether to pursue the matter any further, to ask if he had offended her. But he did nothing and, presently, turned on his side as well, so that they were back to back.

But Celeborn could not find sleep, though it seemed Galadriel had, despite her heart's unease, and he lay awake for many a long hour, reluctant to admit to himself at first that those were tears that wetted his eyes. At last he stood and, whether because he was driven by some morbid desire to do her injury as she had done him, or because in his heartbreak he could see clearly at last, he took pen to paper and began to write. It did not take him long to think of the words. In fact, everything he had been wanting to say, everything that he had, in the recesses of his mind, dared to ponder came pouring out like a veritable deluge and he found that it had all already been there, present in his heart and growing like a cancer.

He had seen it before in others, that moment, a breath between heartbeats in which love ceases to exist, like a candle put out by a gust of wind, an irrevocable extinguishing of sentiment. Even the tiniest thing can spark such a monumental change: the sound of laughter, a single word, an expression that darts across the face as quickly as a deer in the meadow. But in truth even the smallest thing is part of a larger whole and so he knew that this too, this denial, this rejection, was merely part of a much larger rejection that had been happening since ever they met and now, at last he had tasted of the fruit himself, tasted fully and found it exceedingly bitter.

Yes, he had seen it before, but he had never felt it until this evening. And yet, when she had cried to him to stop, something in him had changed, something he could not control, and that feeling, that love he had borne her was so utterly and inescapably gone that he knew beyond any shade of doubt that he could not get it back no matter how hard he searched for it. His heart was pounding, for he felt very much like a boat adrift and, truthfully, his heart had almost forgotten how to feel anything else. He was lost.

So he paced, from the fire from the bed and from the bed to the fire, throughout the maze of his chambers, around and around and around. He moved to sit by her, watching as she slept, reaching out to touch her hair, her fingers, and yet nothing he did ignited even the smallest spark in his heart. He felt absolutely nothing for her. It was something he had never anticipated. How could he ever have imagined that the woman he had awakened beside this evening he would no longer love by noon? How was it possible that a love that had begun with such hope, such promise, such excitement could end so suddenly, so plainly, as though it had been nothing.

He returned to his seat before the fire and read his letter again, and again, and again. So lost was he in thoughts and worry and anxiety that he did not notice the sky gradually turn to dusk or the sounds of the servants awakening.

It seemed that, despite her heart's unease, she at last found sleep, for the next thing she recalled was slowly and groggily coming to. She reached out to find that Celeborn was no longer there and that where he had lain had now grown cold, but hearing the faint rustling of parchment, she blinked and opened eyes still blurry from sleep to stare up at the enchanted ceiling. Stars twinkled there, smiling down upon her, but her heart did not feel so merry.

Artanis sat up, the sheets pooling about her hips, and saw that her lover sat on the floor in the next room at a low table by the fire, wearing only his breeches, his feet bare and his hair unbound, obscuring his face. All of Menegroth would be waking now, but the spot next to her showed signs of not having been slept in at all, and she wondered how long Celeborn had been awake. Slipping from the bed, she reached down to pick up her dressing gown and pulled it on, knotting the sash loosely about her waist, before padding across the grassy forest floor to her lover's side.

"Celeborn, meleth nin," she whispered softly, touching his shoulder. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing," he said, "it is only that matter with the dwarves and Thingol, some business about some contract he says he never signed," but he shuffled the papers and folded them, tucking them away in a leather bound book as if he did not wish her to see. "I'm still investigating it." The silence hung like a heavy frost between them and she saw that sleep had not made either of them forget what had passed between them at noontide.

"And I thought you had given that up," she said.

Celeborn said nothing, merely folded his arms, resting his elbows on his knees, and Artanis moved to kneel behind him, gently placing her hands on his shoulders. She felt him grow tense at her touch and her heart ached, recalling the pain that she had caused him.

"Celeborn, I am sorry," she whispered, pushing his long hair over his shoulder so that she might see his back. Gently, she traced the scars there; they must have been very deep cuts to leave such permanent marks upon an elf, or else they had gone untreated. She lowered her lips to them, kissing each one, as if by doing so she could soothe the wounds she had cut into his heart, but it seemed almost as though his skin itself shrank from her touch. "Forgive me," she pleaded, "I…I do not know why I said what I did, but I am sorry for it." It was a lie, and she felt filthy saying it, but what else could she do? Celeborn was silent for a moment and then he reached back to take her hand, pulling her forward to sit upon his lap and sighing deeply.

"There is a heavy matter, very heavy indeed, that weighs upon my mind and consumes my thoughts." He said.

"Then I would beg of you to impart your concerns to me," she said, wrapping her arms about his broad shoulders, "for you ought not bear a burden alone, most especially when there is another that might help you carry it."

But Celeborn merely shook his head. "No, it is a private matter."

Artanis looked quite taken aback by that but he found that he did not much care how she felt. She had done the same to him too many times to count. Indeed, he found that he did not care for her much at all at the moment and only wished that she would be soon gone.

"Shall I see if we might have breakfast brought to us?" She asked, seeming to sense that something was amiss, and rose.

"Not in your dressing gown you shouldn't," he said, but there was no humor in his tone.

"Very well," She said, shrugging the robe off, and he watched with disinterest as she dressed and then sat, brushing her golden hair.

He waited for a few moments after he heard her receding footsteps and the click of the door closing before he sighed and, with a heavy heart, opened the leather bound book that lay before him, carefully removing the letter that he had hastily thrust inside.

"Galadriel," he whispered the word to the empty room and the silence swallowed it as he eyed the letter, not quite having the courage to read once more what he had written therein. At long last, his heart having grown stronger, he unfolded it.

_To Cirdan,_

_Lord of the Falas and Master Shipwright_

_Liege of Elu Thingol, High King of Beleriand,_

_From His nephew,_

_Celeborn, Prince of Doriath_

_High Prince of Beleriand_

_High Prince of the Sindar_

_My dear Sir,_

_I it is my most sincere hope that this letter finds you in the best of spirits in this the season of golden leaves and cool mornings when the mist rises off of the Sirion. Though we have not met face to face in many a long year, it is always with great joy that I receive your letters, dear kinsman._

_It is with great regret, however, that I confess that I write to you now not with tidings of joy, but for the purpose of seeking information regarding a matter of great secrecy and, most probably, of even greater malevolence._

_As you well know, when the Noldor first came to our lands many years ago, Thingol and yourself shared fears that they came with some darker intention than they purported, or else that they had committed some great evil of which they dared not speak or were under the shadow of some dark fate or curse. And you also know that I shared in these fears, wondering at what matter had caused such great discontent and ill-feeling amongst the princes of the Noldor._

_As you know, we in Doriath at first thought that, amongst the Noldor, the children of Finarfin alone were innocent and thus we allowed them entrance into our kingdom and also because they bear the blood of Earwen, their mother, who is the daughter of our King's brother. Yet many years spent in their proximity has revealed to us that they too likely played some part in whatever evil has passed, though we could not perceive at first. Whether this is because the part they played in this wrongdoing was less than that of the sons of Feanor or of Fingolfin, or because they were more adept at concealing these matters from us we do not know._

_Of late, this matter weighs heavily upon my mind even as it does the King's and I now have cause to believe that the King's concern over this matter and his agitation with the Noldorin princes for withholding from him what he deems to be valuable information may have caused him to take some actions which are less than prudent. I beg you not think me treasonous for having confessed such thoughts and I assure you that it is only with the good of my King and my kingdom in mind that I write them. And it is also for that purpose that I write to you now, for I would beg you send me word with all haste of any and all information that may come into your possession regarding the deeds of any of the Noldor, but most particularly of the children of Finarfin, Finrod called Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond, and his sister, the Lady Artanis._

_Once more I must beg your silence and secrecy regarding this matter for I am sure that you can understand the delicacy of our current situation._

_I remain as I ever have been and ever shall be, the humble and obedient servant of our king,_

_Celeborn Galadhonion_

He refolded the letter and tapped it absentmindedly upon the table as he stared into the fire, his thoughts running hither and thither in his mind. He wanted to believe, desperately almost, that Galadriel truly loved him enough that she would keep no secret from him that he ought to know, that she would not willingly jeopardize Doriath or her people. If there was a secret then surely, surely there must be some justifiable reason that she kept it from him… But now he wondered if she ever loved him at all, or if that was just a lie too.

He hissed in pain, looking down at a small cut on his finger marked by a thin red line of blood. In his distraction it seemed that he had been running his fingers back and forth across the seam of the letter. It angered him for some reason and he stood, stepping around the table to the fire, holding the letter out over the flames. Have I sunk so deeply into paranoia that I will be overwhelmed by the same sickness of the mind that pulls at Thingol now? Am I becoming like Saeros and Oropher, distrustful and suspicious of all, content to fence myself and my kingdom off to live in complete and total isolation? He wondered. His hand quivered, pondering the audacity of hope, of trust…of consigning this letter to the flames – but no, he licked his lips nervously and folded it, tucking it into the pocket of his breeches; she was false. He knew it and he had denied it for far too long.

"Celeborn," he heard Artanis's voice from the entryway and turned to see her enter the room, a smile like sunshine upon her face. "I meant to have breakfast sent up but…is something the matter?" A look of concern crossed her face and Celeborn thought that he must not have disguised his thoughts as well as he had hoped. "Celeborn, I…about last night…I truly am sorry…" she began, looking crestfallen, but Celeborn quickly schooled his features into a smile.

"It is nothing," he said. "Consider it forgotten and think no more of it." Did she truly think him so naïve as to believe her false apologies? But, of course she did, for he had been believing them for years now.

"I was going to have breakfast sent up," she said, wrapping her arms about his neck, "but I saw Melian on the way and she invited us to break our fast with her and Thingol instead if that is amenable to you."

"Very well," he said before donning a shirt and, together, the two of them set off for the King's chambers.


	12. Darkness Rising

  
**Darkness Rising**

In Cavern's Shade: 12th Chapter

*****

"That was their way, their heathenish hope;

deep in their hearts they remembered hell."

\- Seamus Heaney's Beowulf

*****

**Author's note:** I just want to point out that this chapter (and the next few) delve a lot into the characters' motivations, fears, and feelings. I am sincerely not trying to paint anyone as a "bad guy" but attempting to show how complicated their circumstances are and setting the ground for the choices they will make down the road. Although there is at least a grain of truth in what each character says or thinks, and sometimes more than a grain, what each of them presents is only the truth as they see it and their version of events and opinions are definitely subject to doubt and debate.

*****

"What is it that you sense?" The king did ask his queen. "What woe is it that lays her low? What secret so obscene, that she must hide from kith and kin that which we would glean?" His eyes were keen as lances, his shoulders straight and strong, his brow was creased with worry, his mind concerned with wrong.

"It is death," she said, "and can be no other unless my sight does lead me stray. "For what else could cast that pallid veil, over shining face and make it fell, or steal from summer's blooming rose the glowing blush of sun?"

*****

The surface of the Esgalduin was dark as obsidian, slow flowing in the cold and the snow floated down onto it, white like foam. In its mirror-like surface the bare black branches of trees and the thick green needles of conifers were reflected. Snow lay heavily on their branches and coated the ground like a thick carpet so that the trees almost seemed to be sinking in it. Every now and again a group of white-tailed deer would emerge from amongst the trees, looking at them curiously as they drank from the water's edge and, occasionally they would see a rabbit, bright red cardinals, red-breasted robins, or owls of numerous varieties playing in the gray sky overhead. But the most pervading sensation was the silence that enveloped them, that hung over the countryside like a blanket.

Perhaps it was simply being away from the hustle and bustle of Menegroth that made the forest seem so silent by comparison and perhaps she had become so accustomed to Menegroth that silence now made her uncomfortable. But the creeping, slowly seeping feeling that was beginning to fill her heart was like a river rising in spring as the ice melted, the slow yet ominous threat of drowning flood.

The world was a hollow eggshell, the white and yolk long gone, so empty even that the membrane coating its walls had dried up and fallen away, leaving only the chalky shell behind and her, sitting in the midst of that fragile cradle waiting, worrying, wondering when it would crack and bear her forth to an endless chasm, a void of shuddering and silence.

She knew that something had changed between them, something imperceptible and yet monumental. He hardly spoke to her any longer and, as the weeks grew, he spent more and more time at the borders with the wardens and she spent more and more time in a cold and empty bed. And in the hollow of her heart a bell tolled, whispering, 'he loves you not' and her doubts stretched out around her like a spider's web until her very heart itself felt like that selfsame eggshell and she held it within her carefully, as if each breath would be enough to splinter it.

Their canoe drifted slowly down the Esgalduin with the forest of Region on their left and the forest Neldoreth on their right. "This is a lovely boat." She said, if only to break the silence, dipping her oar into the water. The canoe was of Celeborn's making, simple yet practical and elegant in its design, a boat of white cedar striped in different hues and coated with a glossy varnish.

"It must be the Telerin blood in me," Celeborn replied quietly and fell silent.

His words were sour in her ears and, impulsively, she found herself wanting to reprimand him for bringing up such an unhappy topic, though she knew that the guilt and blame were all in her own mind and that, of course, she could say nothing to him regarding the matter of the Teleri. Their arrival that evening in a bustling fishing village at the edge of the girdle, nestled beneath the boughs of Neldoreth, and situated on the banks of the Esgalduin, was a relief, for it meant that she was no longer alone with Celeborn and with the interminable, unbearable silence.

They entered a marshy inlet where the water was a still, pale, and perfect blue and the icy black boles of slender young maples rose up through the water like pillars, their boughs delicately covered with snow, and frozen reeds knocked against the side of the canoe, rattling like bones as they approached the quay where a line of elves stood waiting.

"Your Royal Highness! Welcome!" The cheerfulness of the voice was a stark contrast to the somberness of her mood. A dark haired elf stepped forward, bowing low to Celeborn before pulling the prince into a friendly embrace that surprised Artanis. The assembly of elves behind him merely bowed. Their clothes were simple but finely made, and the females as well as males wore breeches and tunics in the dusky hues of the forest, suited to life on the frontier but the quality of the cloth was evidence that this was a prosperous village, indeed, a primary supplier of fish to Menegroth itself. Amaron, she had been told, was the name of this village's chieftain and he, she assumed, was the one who had greeted Celeborn as they exited the boat.

"It has been a long time indeed since we had the honor of a royal visit." Amaron said and Celeborn, grinning, clasped the other elf's shoulder, making his apologies, which the chieftain dismissed, before turning inquisitive eyes towards Artanis.

"Artanis Finarfiniel, sister of Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond, and handmaiden to our queen, her majesty Melian of Doriath," Celeborn said by way of introduction.

"My Lady," Amaron inclined his head with a smile and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It is an honor indeed to be in the presence of such rare and exquisite beauty," he said. "And none of you tell my wife what I have said!" He turned to his advisors, who let out a raucous chorus of laughter that made Artanis smile and forget, for a moment, the many worries that had plagued her mind.

"Your highness," the elf turned back to Celeborn, his voice low and discreet, "forgive me but we have only prepared for your arrival and would not be aware that you would be conveying this lady to her brother's realm. Shall we have a place prepared for the lady as well?"

But Celeborn raised his hand in a gesture of denial and said, "she is my consort."

"Ah, my apologies," Amaron said with a grin but Artanis wondered why Celeborn had replied as he had since he had seemed so unwilling to share a bed of late and the chieftain had made an offer that would have been so easy to accept.

"No need," Celeborn replied with a smile as the people ushered them through the village to the chieftain's house. The snow was falling softly now onto thatched rooves, the windows were lit with a warm glow, and the streets of the town were filled with elves milling about. Some of them were simply going about their business, toting firewood, returning home with their catch, others were holding elflings on their shoulders so that they might see their prince. Here and there were young elf maids and elf men, still growing into their gangly bodies, who huddled in groups, laughing and casting admiring glances at the two nobles.

Something about the peace and joy here brought a smile to her face and, wistfully, she imagined what such a life must be like, away from the intrigues of Menegroth or of the Feanorians, a simple life on the frontier, a difficult life but a rewarding one.

The snow crunched beneath their feet and, carefully, they made their way up the ice-slick steps, shedding their boots and heavy capes before passing into the dwelling. It was the first time that Artanis had ever been in a Sindarin farmhouse and, upon entering, she found herself entirely astounded, for the house was simple yet beautiful. The floors were of a dark and glossy wood and constructed so finely that the seams where the boards met were barely visible. Wood and paper lanterns hung here and there, glowing warmly. Some of the rooms were divided with sliding reed or paper screens while others were marked off by hanging tapestries embroidered with the most beautiful scenes.

Amaron led them into a main room where a fire was roaring in a pit in the floor over which a large black pot was hanging suspended from the ceiling. There were low tables set around the hearth and soft cushions upon which they were invited to sit and Artanis looked with awe at the spectacular view of the forest that was visible through the glass paned doors that lined the back of the house. She and Celeborn were seated on either side of Amaron and the room filled with the murmur of conversation as others filtered in, Amaron's family, friends, prominent villagers.

The adults greeted her politely, but the children did not have the grace to know that they should not stare and so they did, watching her with round eyes full of wonder, for they had never seen a Noldo before and the light in her eyes and the glimmering gold of her hair were foreign wonders entirely new to them.

"Forgive them their curiosity my Lady," Amaron's smiling wife said. "They have not yet learned any better." And she bent down to whisper into the ear of the dark-haired toddler who was clinging to her skirts. "I am Silefil." She introduced herself.

"Artanis. And I don't mind at all," Artanis said with a smile, waving to the little boy, who giggled and hid his face in his mother's skirts. His mother lifted him onto her lap and held him while they ate.

"Do you have many children?" Artanis asked her.

"Four," she said, bouncing the child on her lap. "Two are grown, a son and a daughter, both married, and these two little boys are mine as well." She kissed the boy she was holding on top of the head and gestured to the young boy sitting at Amaron's side.

"That is like my family," Artanis said, with a smile, "for I am the only girl of four children and all of my father's siblings have large families as well. But most Sindarin families I have met are quite small, at least in Menegroth it seems that many couples have only one or, at most, two children."

"That is true of most of our people," Silefil said, "though it has become more common to have a large family in the years since our Queen Melian fenced these lands. Before then it was an impossibility. Elflings made easy prey for Melkor's creatures and wild animals, and parents who have lost a child, particularly in that horrible manner, are often reluctant to have another. Or else it was often the case that one or both of the parents were killed before they were able to have any more children, as in the case of the prince and his brother." She said quietly, inclining her head in Celeborn's direction.

"Did you…know them?" Artanis asked, haltingly, noting the sad look in Silefil's eyes.

"Do you not know?" Silefil asked, "Celeborn told us that you were his consort. Did he say nothing to you?" In response to the puzzled look in the Noldo's eyes, the dark-haired elven woman sighed and ran her fingers through the soft hair of the child on her lap. In that moment Artanis almost thought that she looked old, in the way that dwarves and animals grew old. Then she reached for the golden chain that hung around her neck and pulled forth from her bodice a golden locket, drawing it over her head and handing it to Artanis.

"May I?" Artanis asked, although it seemed obvious that Silefil would not have handed her the locket if she did not want her to look at it. The Sindarin woman only nodded and Artanis carefully opened the clasp. There in the locket was set a painting so fine that Artanis almost gasped aloud at seeing it, for there could be no mistaking the woman who stared back at her out of the image. Her long hair was silver as a star, her eyes green as leaves, a familiar confidence graced her lips, just barely curled into the hint of a smile, and there was a certain courage and bravery in her gaze that humbled Artanis.

"She had that hair, that magnificent hair, even though she was not born a princess. Candil was my older sister," Silefil said, clasping the locket back about her neck, "my constant companion. She became the chieftainess of our people, a chieftainess of Thingol after our parents were killed and we spent many a long year with our people searching for the King while he was lost. It was then that she met Galadhon, a prince, the son of the King's lost brother, Elmo," she smiled, "and they were close from the start. It was no surprise to me that they married soon, for they were both quite daring and impatient besides." She laughed, and Artanis could tell that her mind was far away in memory.

"The following years were very happy ones, for Thingol was found, and Melian became our queen, and my sister had two lovely children of her own. In those days she lived here with Galadhon and her children." Silefil sighed. "I remember that we were very happy, despite the danger, for those were the days before Menegroth had been built or Melkor had been unchained. But still his creatures roamed here far and wide and they grew bolder, encroaching upon our camps, perhaps anticipating their master's imminent release. My sister was terrified that they would take her children, but she never expected that they would take her husband instead and so bold was her spirit that when they did take him she ran after them, determined that she would either kill them or be killed."

"After she went missing… I feared for the lives of her children, for this settlement was on the frontier and no longer safe for ones so young. Before she left in search of Galadhon she begged me keep them safe in the event that she did not return and I swore to her that I would. So, after several years, I took them to Thingol, for they were princes of the royal house and I knew that they would be safe with him."

"When I told Thingol of the passing of Galadhon and Candil he grew sorrowful, for Olwe had passed over the sea by that time and Elmo and his son, alone of Thingol's family, had stayed here in middle earth with him. Luthien was but a child then and Thingol had no sons and so, lamenting the death of the son of his beloved brother, he took his children as his own and raised them alongside his daughter, and I returned here, to where I was born and where I have always lived. But I dared not marry, though I had met Amaron and loved him, for I feared that my sister's fate would be our own and that, were we to have children, they too would grow to adulthood as orphans or else be killed themselves."

"But the third age of Melkor's chaining dawned and Thingol and Melian, driven by the sadness of Galadhon's death and sensing that Melkor might come to this world again to continue what evil he had started, cast the girdle about our kingdom and founded Menegroth as a refuge and capital city in preparation. It was then that we came to know peace. No longer could Melkor's creatures poach our people from their beds. And in the peace of Thingol we were able to build towns and villages, to make our living in fishing and planting and hunting without fear of meeting our death in the wild. Doriath became civilized. We built roads and bridges and ferried goods and people up and down the river and everyone prospered."

"How surprised I was!" She said with a laugh, the first time that I visited Menegroth and saw such a wonder as I had never imagined. I felt such a country girl. To think, that elves and dwarves could build such a magnificent thing, such a metropolis! I sat at the King's table and he called me his sister and I dined off of crystal and silver such as I had never dreamed of."

"But the most surprising and wonderful thing of all was to see my two nephews. For Galathil had been a babe barely able to walk when last I saw him, yet he had grown into a tall, well-learned elf, Thingol's herald, with all of his father's kindness and gentle manners. And Celeborn!" She laughed. "He was precocious child of but ten years when I took him to Thingol, but he was a man fully grown, with his father's height and broad shoulders. And he was so much like my sister in temperament, with her quick anger, her decisive nature, her sharp intellect, her boldness and daring."

"Thingol invited me to stay," she shook her head, "but this is my home and, besides, knowing that we were safe now, I wanted to return here, to marry Amaron, to have a family of my own…" She smiled. "And I did. It is thanks to Thingol and to Melian that we live so well now, that we no longer fear for the deaths of our children, of our spouses, of our loved ones and friends. It is thanks to them that the people of Doriath live in peace and happiness and prosper." She smiled. "Seeing him," she nodded towards Celeborn, "it is almost as though my sister lives again in her son. She would be proud of him, of this kingdom, of what we have all built." Of what I am putting in grave danger, Artanis thought to herself, feeling her heart grow chill in the midst of warmth and laughter.

"What happened, to his mother and father?" Artanis asked. She knew that Celeborn's parents were dead, indeed, it was common knowledge in Doriath, but he had never spoken on the matter before to her and she had not needed him too, assuming that the memories were too painful for him to recall.

But Silefil said nothing more in that regard and, instead, only asked, "those who return from Mandos's halls to Aman….have you…" Silefil began, haltingly.

"No… I'm sorry," Artanis replied. The dark haired Sinda's head dropped and she nodded.

"Uncle, Auntie," Celeborn said, rising, "my apologies but we have had a long journey today and will have a longer one in the next few days. I hate to turn in early, especially when I am enjoying myself so very much, but I believe I will take my rest now and the Lady Artanis will join me."

"Of course, your highness," Amaron said with a snide grin, rising, but Celeborn elbowed his uncle gently in the ribs and the two of them laughed. Silefil rose as well and embraced her nephew.

"Tell me," she said to Celeborn, casting a friendly glance at Artanis, "will Doriath soon have a Noldorin princess? Will you be the first of our princes to marry?"

"That, auntie," Celeborn said with a raised eyebrow and a grin, "is a private matter." In good spirits, he and Artanis were ushered into a magnificent room, fit for a prince of his station, where a thin mattress laden with pillows, blankets, and furs had been laid out on the glossy wooden floor. There was a low table upon which sat a steaming teapot and two porcelain tea bowls and wooden lanterns with paper screens were sitting in the corners of the room, glowing warmly. The room did not have walls, per say, so much as it was separated from the other rooms on two sides by finely painted sliding screens, some of them patterned with gold foil. The one wooden wall was completely covered by a tapestry of blue as dark as midnight, the crest of Thingol embroidered in the center in silver thread that glimmered in the lamplight. But most magnificent of all was the wall of glass paneled wooden doors that looked out upon the snow-covered forest.

Artanis walked to the doors, the wooden floor smooth and cool against her feet, looking out at the stars twinkling in the sky above, the snow that lay heavy upon the branches of pines, and the ruby red cardinals flitting about in the trees. Snow was falling gently in the light of the moon. It was rare that the Sindar slept at night and she and Celeborn were only doing so because tomorrow they planned to travel outside of the girdle, and so they would go by daylight, for orcs did not usually travel under the sun. She had grown used to waking at night and now she wished that she could stay awake, simply so that she could drink in more of the beauty of the night, so that time would not tread on, but would remain as frozen as the winter forest.

"It is strange," she said with a small laugh, speaking from her heart, "for I have always talked about how I would like to be a great queen and yet, having come here, I think that I would like to live in such a place as this, at peace amongst nature and kind people, away from the bustle of the city." She turned to see that Celeborn had stripped to his breeches, having carefully set aside his weapons and clothes. He came over to stand at her side, crossing his arms over his chest, and she felt her breath catch in her throat as she observed the way in which the glow of the lanterns played over his muscular arms and chest. It had been a long while since he had last touched her.

"Then be the queen of a forest," he said.

"Maybe I shall," she said. He laughed softly at that.

"Why did you not tell me that your family lives here, that you were born here?" She asked him softly and he turned to look at her, the light from the lanterns flickering in his green eyes. She could not quite read them and her heart quivered within the cage of her chest. He let out a long breath.

"I do not know," he said in a guarded tone, shaking his head, and she felt a sharp pain lance through her heart at the knowledge that he had kept something so intimate from her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I don't remember them," He replied. They fell silent for a while.

"Thingol is my father now, Melian my mother."

Artanis nodded and he turned to her, his eyes uncertain, and the doubt in his face stole the air from her lungs, left them burning as though she had been underwater for far too long.

"This will be our last night alone before we reach Nargothrond," he said in a low voice, and Artanis stared quizzically back, not understanding what he meant to imply.

But there was a desperation rising in Celeborn, a desperation that had been rising since he had send the letter to Cirdan a month ago, a desperation that he had tried to put to rest as he spent the hours when he ought to have been sleeping in pacing the halls, imagining every conceivable reply that he might receive, pondering every possibility, driving himself half mad. He had returned to his quarters on occasion, not only because he did need to sleep, but because he would sometimes sit and watch Artanis sleep, trying to understand why he no longer loved her, trying to make those feelings come back, maybe he still could.

"Finrod will not permit us to share a room," he said.

"That is true," she said, looking unsure. "But…I hardly see how that matters…it seems that you no longer yearn for my touch…" The words hung between them like the blade of an axe.

"That is not true," Celeborn said. It was only half a lie. He still found her beautiful, still burned with the desire to touch her, only love no longer had anything to do with it. But he had convinced himself now that if he bound himself to her then he would come to love her again, that the bond would make it so. It was a half conceived plan, as are most plans born of madness, sundered hopes, and violent desperation.

"That is not true," he said again and stepped forward, undoing the ties of her jerkin, discarding it, reaching for the clasps of her tunic and opening them one by one. Oh how she wanted to believe him, but his fingers were shaking. But this could not be Celeborn, Celeborn whose fingers never shook, whose heart never doubted, whose mind was never uncertain, but was steady in all things, as a ship in still waters. At the thought, her body stiffened. It only increased his anxiety. The tunic fell to the floor and Artanis gasped, wrapping her arms about herself. She did not know why; Celeborn had seen her naked, had touched her many a time, every part of her, and it had always brought her joy, but it did not bring her joy now.

"You do not desire my touch," he said quietly, stilling his hands. She felt the warmth of his hands withdraw

"Yes," she made herself say, "yes I do." It seemed as though someone else were speaking the words. She did not understand her own mind at the moment. Hadn't she been longing for his touch for a month now? Hadn't she been missing it, craving it? He reached for her again, gingerly, tentatively, fearfully even. It was so strange. Even on their first night together they had not been so unsteady and bashful. Indeed, they had not been able to sate themselves, had stripped every inch of the other bare with lustful abandon, had not stopped until they had explored and committed to memory every minute detail of the other's body. Now they were slow, awkward, unsure.

He reached for her white cotton shirt and pulled it over her head, discarding it. Artanis struggled against the urge to cover herself with her hands and, instead, reached out tentatively to draw his waist within the circle of her arms and he, gingerly, almost as though he were frightened, cupped a firm breast in his hand. He hissed then, shuddering and closing his eyes and she knew by it that he desired her, physically at least. Frantically almost, more because she could not stand for him to do it than that she wanted to be naked, she reached down and unbuttoned her breeches, pushing them off. His hands went to his belt, and she heard the buckle clatter to the floor as he pulled it off, his breeches soon following. His hands were still shaking, she noted.

Almost mechanically they moved to the bed and she lay down, her body stiff, swallowing hard as her head touched the pillows. He moved overtop her and she hissed with discomfort at the weight of him, a weight she had never before minded, her palms pressed up against his chest. He made some sort of effort to kiss her, first on the lips, then on her neck, but it was very strange, fumbling, as though there was no feeling left in him. She felt his hand touch her and flinched because it hurt, for she was not in the least bit aroused, and then, to her great shock, she felt something else, she felt it, pressing there. They had gone far before; they had never ever gone that far.

"Bind with me?" He gasped, looking into her eyes.

"W…with no ceremony, no rings, no vows…" she stammered.

"It is not uncommon," he replied, his voice trembling. They must. They must bind or he would lose her…he would never feel anything for her again, maybe never feel anything for anyone ever again.

But Artanis looked into his eyes and saw them filled with fear, something she had never before seen in him, and she knew then why his touch brought her no joy this night; this was not Celeborn, or else not the Celeborn that she loved.

"Please…" he whispered, a strangled whisper.

"Celeborn…" she said, her lip trembling, tears starting in her eyes because it hurt her so very much to say it. "I don't think it is supposed to feel like this." Those words seemed to take all of the life from him as suddenly as a gust of wind might disperse the autumn leaves and he collapsed, his head against her chest. She could not see his face, but she could feel the wetness of tears against her skin and the shuddering of silent sobs, and suddenly she no longer feared his touch, for he was here now and not that other-seeming person. She clasped his head to her, her hands in his hair, silver the color of a comet's tail. She had never seen him so vulnerable and she held him, comforted him as best as she was able for she loved him, she loved him with all her heart, with all of her fea, with everything that she was. The tears rolled silently down her cheeks and in their hearts they both knew that it was finished.

Sometime between midnight and morning they could find no more tears to shed and Celeborn rose. Wordlessly pulling on his breeches, he slid one of the glass-paneled doors open and dropped down from the veranda, walking out barefoot into a moonbeam of pure white snow. Artanis donned her breeches and her cotton shirt and, clutching her arms tightly about herself, strode out after him, coming to a stop beside him.

They stood in silence for a long while and then she turned to him and, in a hoarse whisper said, "say it, the name that you gave me; call me your Galadriel." He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and gave no answer into the unspeaking silence. In that moment she knew with complete certainty what her heart had feared: he did not love her anymore.

Silently she turned, walking back in her own footsteps to the house. The tea had gone cold.

*****

It was for Finrod's sake that they deemed it appropriate to feign happiness and contentment for now, for Felagund had been anticipating them for many years and, despite what had passed between themselves, they both still loved him dearly as a friend and brother. And so, for his sake, they would smile and laugh and make merry for a while until they must tell him why they had come. The both of them knew that it would only be for a short while, for he must be told that Thingol knew of the Silmarils and Artanis knew at last in her heart of hearts what she had decided: that she would tell Thingol of the kinslaying even though her brothers and cousins forbade it. But there was no grim foreboding in her heart now, for she had already lost that which was most dear to her and, in the face of that, the loss of honor, of pride, or status, of security seemed so monumentally trivial.

"Artanis, Celeborn!" Finrod came charging out of the gates in a fashion somewhat reminiscent of the over exuberant way that Luthien's hounds greeted her after a long absence. He embraced them warmly, first together, and then, finding that his arms would not wrap entirely around them both, separately.

"Artanis my beloved sister!" He cried, wrapping her in a hug that forced the wind from her lungs.

"Your only sister," she pointed out gasping for breath as he released her, but she was hardly in the mood for such humor. For her brother suspected nothing she could see. As ever, worldly and aged as he was, he was possessed of a certain naiveté regarding those he deemed good friends. Many times had it sparked arguments between him and her when that goodwill of his was directed at their cousins. Now that it was directed at her, she felt as though she were the most wretched of creatures who would soon destroy that happiness. But she had decided and there was not a creature alive who could sway her from that choice now that heartbreak drove her.

"Celeborn, my dearest friend!" She saw Celeborn wince at the force with which Finrod has slapped him on the back.

"And…" Finrod said, stepping back so that he might see them better, examining them with an appraising eye, "Yes, you make a very handsome couple indeed!" He grinned. "I take it that things are going well between you?" He turned and walked towards the gates.

"Very well indeed," said Celeborn jovially, "unless Artanis has any complaints."

"No, I have no complaints" she said with a smile. "We are very happy." She finished with a laugh that felt as hollow as Nargothrond's half-finished halls. Her heart beat slowly in her chest like a drum. She had thought no lie could hurt worse than the one she had been keeping already. She was wrong.

"Tell me, did you have a pleasant trip?" Finrod asked. "You cannot imagine how eagerly I have awaited your arrival. What could be better than having my sister and my dearest friend visit me all at once?" But more words poured out of his mouth before they could answer him as they passed within to the entryway. "Is it not lovely?" He asked, his voice heightened with excitement. The hall had the semblance of Menegroth but with something of a Noldorin bent to it. The pillars were tall stone trees, just like in Menegroth, with boughs of gold and leaves of gemstones. Yet the floors were not earth, but tiles of white and obsidian glass, polished so brightly that they might have been mirrors and Galadriel and Celeborn could see their faces vividly reflected back at them.

Nargothrond had not quite the wealth of wildlife that Menegroth had yet still, here and there, rabbits and squirrels darted about. They passed through room after room, watching the elves hard at work. Much of Nargothrond was yet incomplete and there were some rooms that were only mere stone yet. But everywhere golden lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating the work, and Finrod bid them stop many times to observe the carving of a relief or the painting of a fresco.

"I feel almost as if I were within a museum of art," Artanis said.

"Then my project is succeeding!" Finrod exclaimed. "Oh, and Celeborn, we have prepared all that Thingol asked for, the maps and charts, the ledgers. I shall send them all back with you. I hope that I shall secure your positive recommendation. Now come!" His enthusiasm was contagious and they could not help but smile.

"But perhaps you are cold, for it is winter." He said half to himself and then called for one of the elves that stood nearby. "Gildor, warm capes and hot spiced wine for my guests if you please." The elf nodded and ran off to do his lord's bidding as they moved into the throne room.

It was not a replica of Menegroth but it was similar in style, like a living forest, two great trees canopying Finrod's throne, which was built from a massive piece of driftwood that had been polished, and carved, and made beautiful. Yet the trees here, in straight rows, seemed more orderly than those in Menegroth, which seemed to sprawl all over the place and, as Artanis walked amongst them the realization came over her suddenly.

"Lorien, it is Lorien," she said, turning to Finrod. He smiled in confirmation.

"It is indeed." He affirmed, "the gardens of Aman," he explained to Celeborn as the servant came bustling in bearing steaming goblets of spiced wine, two thick wool capes over his arm. They took the offerings gratefully and Artanis smiled as she sipped the warm sweet wine. "You should have seen her when she used to dance there. The Valar themselves could not have been more splendid," Finrod remarked to Celeborn with a grin.

"I imagine she was magnificent," Celeborn said politely and Artanis felt her heart break just a little more at his words. It was beginning to sink in now, that she would not have him. That she would be forced to endure the pain of watching him marry someone else, that he would kiss another's lips, that another woman would bear his children, would smile with him, laugh with him, live with him. Her throat felt unusually tight.

"But, I have one more surprise for you!" Finrod said with the giddiness of a child and as if on cue, from behind a pillar stepped two elves with long blonde hair bearing such a startling resemblance to Galadriel and Finrod that Celeborn knew they must be related. Indeed, one of them looked vaguely familiar.

"Aegnor has not yet arrived but he will be joining us as well," Finrod told them.

"Angrod! Orodreth!" Artanis cried joyfully, stepping forward to embrace her smiling relatives.

"I missed you sister!" Angrod cried, refusing yet to let her loose from his arms. "And Orodreth hardly remembers you. Certainly, I had to remedy that."

"Oh my," she laughed. "I was not expecting a family reunion! Celeborn," she said, turning towards him, "My brother Angrod and his son, my nephew Orodreth."

"The prince of Doriath, Celeborn of the trees," Angrod said with a smile, stepping forward to grasp the Sinda's hand. "We have met before, though only briefly. It is good to see you again."

"Likewise," Celeborn replied. "Though I must admit that I do not remember you well, I am grateful for this chance to become reacquainted as well as to meet your son." He turned towards Finrod. "And, may I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations Finrod. Nargothrond is splendid," said Celeborn sincerely. "Thingol will be most impressed when I show him the drawings."

"I certainly hope so. I am, after all, deeply indebted to him in more ways than one," Finrod said with a smile.

"There is no debt among friends," Celeborn assured him. "But, as much as I would very much like to speak of all that has occurred since your departure from Menegroth Finrod, I fear that, regrettably, there are matters that we must discuss, unpleasant matters." And so Finrod had had his happiness for a brief while but Celeborn did not mean to let him have it forever. The Noldo's brow creased in worry.

"Of course," he said, and the manner in which he said it was more reminiscent of how a vassal would address his liege lord than a friend address his friend. "Artanis…" Celeborn shook his silver head.

"She already knows. But perhaps it would be prudent for Angrod to join us." Finrod nodded. He had gone from ebullient to deathly somber in the matter of a second. "Very well then. Oropher," he nodded at his nephew, "why don't you show your Aunt the gardens."

"I am very sorry to have to do this Finrod," she heard Celeborn saying as Orodreth took her hand and led her away, but she felt no fear now, no worry over retribution, only the dull and hollow aching that had preoccupied her heart for the past few days.

*****

"How very like her," Finrod spat, "to tell him everything else except that which implicates her. She only said nothing of the kinslaying or of the curse of Mandos because, as ever, she would absolve herself from all guilt." They were in the safety of his chambers now and both of the sons of Finarfin were boiling over with anger, though it was not directed at Celeborn, who had just told them that Doriath had learned of the Silmarils from Artanis, but at each other, for what Celeborn had told them had reopened doubts and arguments that had long lain dormant.

"This is your doing!" Angrod shouted, seething, his body trembling in rage. "Did you see the way that he looked when he spoke of her. Did you see his eyes – lifeless, dead? Whatever they may say, I know the truth. I looked into his eyes and there was no love there. She will lose everything, EVERYTHING because of you and your selfishness! I have said it before and I will say it again. We MUST tell them of the kinslaying."

"Me?" Finrod cried. "How is any of this my fault brother? It was not I who drew sword in Alqualonde."

"No, oh no you did not," Angrod laughed, a cruel laugh. "You stood by and watched mother's family be murdered. How does that make you feel Finrod? Does it help you sleep at night to know that you, at least, did not draw your sword?"

"And you drew yours and she drew hers and what of it? You slew your father's kin!"

"They were in the wrong," Angrod said firmly, slamming his fist down upon the table in Finrod's chambers. "Had we not slain them they would have slain many others."

"And is that how you sleep at night? Is that your justification for what you have done?" Finrod retorted.

"She is not your pawn to order about as you choose Finrod. The keeping of this secret has lain as a great burden upon her. Greater indeed than on any of us, for she alone of the Noldor resides in Menegroth and her heart is given in love to a Sindarin prince. "

"No? Well she is certainly Celeborn's pawn," Finrod spat bitterly. "And I do not force her to keep that secret, she keeps it of her own will."

"You have used her to your advantage!" Angrod cried angrily, his face coloring even redder, if that was possible, "You knew he loved her! You knew she loved him! By the Valar!" He swore an oath. "Long did I wonder why you felt comfortable leaving her in Menegroth. You have been using them against each other! You knew that she would say nothing of the kinslaying if she feared it would turn Celeborn's heart away from her. And you thought that he would pursue the matter no further if her love hung in the balance. Well you had better fear now brother, for his heart has turned and she no longer has incentive to remain silent. Indeed, I would wager all of the wealth that you brought out of Tirion that, even this very moment, she is contemplating telling him everything."

"But you did not count on that did you? You did not anticipate that his feelings might turn against her. Well, pray tell, what did you think, brother? Celeborn is no fool. Did you not think that he suspected something from the start; that he would forever be content to live with a woman who he knew was keeping a secret from him? And what of her visions? Were you secretly glad for the pain those brought her too? Did you think that if Thingol saw the way that those visions tormented her that he would think her mad, that he would take her word less seriously? I can assure you that is not the case," he shook his finger in his older brother's face, "Thingol has taken her very, very seriously."

"She brings that pain on herself!" Finrod cried. "Falling down and wailing like a child because she has bad dreams!" He scoffed. "And no, I am not pleased by them, for it seems that they tormented her so greatly that she was no longer able to withhold the secret of the Silmarils."

Angrod's nostrils flared. "You make fun of her for them, you tease her for it, you discount them. Yet what she sees is the truth Finrod, and you know it." Angrod circled his older brother angrily. "Do you think I don't know by now? Do you think I haven't figured out why you dismiss what she sees? What is it that you have seen, brother? What is it that frightens you so? What vision could haunt you that is so terrible that the only way you can escape it is to believe that all visions are false?"

A great shiver ran through Finrod and he turned away. "It is not for selfish reasons that I have implored her, implored you, to keep this secret," he said. "Have you forgotten what the Feanorians are capable of?" His voice was softer now, still firm, but not as angry. "They have never liked us. Even now they disparage us as tellers of tales, servants of Thingol. If she tells them…is that what you want?" He hissed in a low voice. "Do you want to bring war upon us? Do you want to see fighting and bloodshed between the sons of Finwe, between the princes of the Noldor and Menegroth? Do you want to see another kinslaying? Would it make our sister happier to see us dead, to see Celeborn killed?"

Angrod clenched his jaw. "We have had this fight many times Finrod. My answer has not changed. Too long have we pampered our cousins and catered to their wishes and desires. If they were man enough to kill then they should certainly be able to face disappointment. Thingol is a king in his own right. How is it your part to decide whether or no he would go to war? And those who would fight will fight. That is their decision, not yours. You let your guilt rule you."

"And you let your soft heart rule you," Finrod retorted.

"I have never been told that it is a fallacy to have a heart," Angrod replied defensively but his seemingly innocuous words awoke a rage in his brother's heart.

"A heart? Love? Love is weak!" Finrod bellowed, his voice ripe with venom. "Is that not a lesson you should have learned by now? Was mother's love strong enough to keep us in Aman? Was our love for her strong enough to prevent us from leaving? What of Nerdanel? Was her love strong enough to retain Feanor? Could Turgon's love save Elenwe from the ice? By the Valar Angrod! He was right there, separated from her by mere inches of frozen water and his love, his great, wonderful, fantastic love did nothing! It was powerless! Was Feanor's love for his sons strong enough to prevent him from condemning them to a life of pain and suffering? Was it strong enough to keep him from murdering outright the youngest of his children? HIS OWN SON! Was Artanis's love for Celeborn strong enough to retain his? Already she has lost him! Love is weak! Love is nothing! Security is the only preserver of peace!" He stood, his chest heaving in anger, in outrage, and Angrod stood, silenced in the wake of his brother's outburst.

"How much happier would Artanis be," Finrod said, his voice losing its edge, becoming kinder, "if she were to remain in Nargothrond. There is no reason now for her to return to Menegroth, now that Celeborn has cast her aside. Why must she continually pursue that which cannot work? She will be happier if her endeavors have goals that are possible. She can stay here and be happy. We can find her a husband of her own kind, one who will love her, who will give her everything that she desires: lands, a kingdom, fine treasures. I swear to you that my only wish is to protect her. She will be happier if she is not clinging to a love that is doomed to fail. Let her find love with another."

"Then perhaps Amarie has found love in the arms of another," Angrod said, his mouth thin. The simple words destroyed Finrod's argument in a single stroke and he sat down heavily in a chair as though the wind had been knocked from him. Angrod turned on his heel, not an ounce of sympathy left in his heart for his brother.

"I will go to our sister now to provide her what comfort I may, and, when they return to Menegroth in the coming weeks I shall go with them and take Aegnor with me if he is willing. I mean to tell Thingol everything, if Artanis will not. It is your choice whether you will go with us or not." And with that he left Finrod alone.


	13. The Tolling of the Bell

  
**The Tolling of the Bell**

In Cavern's Shade: 13th Chapter

*****

"No man is an island,  
Entire of itself,  
Every man is a piece of the continent,  
A part of the main.

Any man's death diminishes me,  
Because I am involved in mankind,  
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;  
It tolls for thee."

– Albert Camus

*****

**Author's Note:** Your questions and comments are always very valuable and helpful.

*****

It had been many years since all of Finarfin's children had been gathered in the same place and the first that they had traveled to Menegroth together and, at any other time, Artanis would have been overjoyed at such a thing, yet now it was with the beating of her heart quickening in her chest that their traveling party approached the gates of Menegroth, for the noose had slipped about her neck and already it was tightening, threatening to choke the life's breath from her and a great foreboding had awakened in her heart; for she knew that the time was at hand when that noose would at last be drawn closed.

Angrod had made their excuses to Celeborn and what exactly he had told the prince she did not know, but he was suspicious, no doubt, though he had the tact to say nothing of it. Too many times had they had that conversation. She dared not look into his eyes, frightened of what she would see there. She had lost his love and next she stood to lose her home. She felt as though there were a clock that had begun to run out its time since the first moment that she had crossed into the borders of Doriath and now the short minutes were tick, tick, ticking away, her time drawing near and she powerless to stop it. Soon enough the bell would sound the hour and any hope she had of redemption was entirely dependent upon her being the one to toll the bell, to decide the hour in which it should ring.

She drew in a deep shuddering breath for before them at last stood the gates of Menegroth, stretching high into the walls of the cliff. But they had not come upon the kingdom unawares, or so it seemed, for standing before the gates now were a great contingent of guards and Galathil, waiting.

"Kinsmen, well met!" Galathil called as they drew near. "We have heard from our Queen that you journeyed with our Prince and with your sister as well. Glad we are that your hearts have been filled with the desire to visit with your sister for as your sister's keeper this also grants us the honor of your company, which we do most heartily cherish and enjoy."

"Hail herald of Thingol!" Finrod Felagund called in reply. "Long have I dwelt in my unfinished city yearning to look once more upon those incomparable halls of Menegroth and of the fair people who dwell within them. You do us great honor with your welcome." And drawing near he dismounted and embraced Galathil.

"This is well," said Galathil, though there was some tone in his voice that awakened a sense of foreboding in Artanis. "But I must regret that my brother, Prince Celeborn, has been called away on urgent business with the King and will therefore not be able to join you immediately, however, "let us pass now within the capital city, for there are many friends who are longing to see you once more and we are preparing a great feast in your honor to be served at midnight and which we plan to enjoy even until the dawn breaks upon us."

It was agreed and then they all passed within and Finrod sighed to look upon the beauty of Menegroth, the very inspiration that had quickened his heart with yearning to establish his own kingdom in its image and rule it by his own hand. But Artanis walked with uncertain steps, though she had her brothers at her side, for a great fear had awakened within her and she felt more now as though she were entering a prison than a palace. For the guards of Menegroth, and these were no ordinary guards, she noticed, but a squadron of elite royal guards, stayed unusually close to her and her brothers.

"Forgive me," Celeborn said to them, having just taken quiet council with his brother, "for Thingol has summoned me to some private council and very suddenly. If it is meet with you, Galathil shall escort you to the hall." So saying, he stepped forward, drawing Galadriel to him and placing a chaste kiss upon her brow, a show of respect for the benefit of her brothers, before he turned and swept away to see to Thingol's business. But Artanis trembled in her heart, for it seemed to her that Galathil and the guards were not there so much to escort them and do them honor so much as they were there to ensure that they did not stray.

And on a time, as they passed to Thingol's great hall, Finrod and Aegnor began to speak to Galathil of the architecture of Menegroth but, while they were in conversation, Artanis drew Angrod aside, growing impatient and saying: "Brother, have you forgotten the words that passed between us when we last spoke or the promises that we made to one another? For each day that I guard this secret weighs upon me like a millstone about my neck and I am almost found out! Morgoth's lies and, even worse, the truths he tells about our people must have reached Menegroth at last, else they would treat us less like prisoners and more like guests. If we speak first then it may well be that some sort of friendship between our house and Thingol's may be preserved, yet if we are found out by other means than our own words there will be no mercy and no forgiveness for us, for the king grows wroth and in his anger lies a paranoia that will not easily be put to rest."

"It may well be that you fear not because you who have the friendship of the sons of Fingolfin and your own house besides do not stand to lose very much, but I beg you recall that I am personally invested in Doriath and in her people and I have no other home now save this city. Whatever may go ill for you shall be ten times worse for me," she continued, her eyes, quick with worry. "Though Celeborn may no longer love me, I cannot even look at him without my heart being overwhelmed by guilt so strong I can barely stand it! Even his touch I cannot bear, for it is the touch of one deceived, and one for whom I still bear great love! I still hope to retain what happiness I have built here, a life of my own choosing that is not dictated by the infighting that plagues the houses of the Noldor and that is not dictated by the choices of others. Let us speak and make the evil known so that we might move forward and put this behind for how can I move forward with my life here while this terrible secret yet remains guarded?"

Then Angrod grew concerned for he knew Thingol not well but much had he heard of the king's legendary anger and he worried that in her desperation his sister was grasping at straws for it seemed to him unlikely in the utmost that Thingol would permit her to remain here once the terrible secret was laid bare. He thought that this she had understood, that knowing the secret, Thingol would certainly cast her out, yet Artanis had ever been strong of will and perhaps in this too she thought that if she willed hard enough she could make it so.

And yet Angrod knew that no words he could say would make this clear to her or dissuade her from her path and so he took her arm, saying gently, "I have not forgotten sister, nor do I mean to deceive you, indeed, it was for that very purpose that I persuaded our brothers to journey here with me, as you know, though they know not the depth of my true purpose. And I am not ignorant of the rumors that have been spreading for recently they have reached even as far as Nargothrond, where I have been dwelling these past few years with Finrod. I beg that you not doubt me, for I have devised a plan and if all goes accordingly you shall be seen as most blameless of all. Only give me but a little more time and I swear to you that I will tell Thingol everything."

"But I am not blameless," Artanis said, "and I would not wish to appear so. It is the truth that I wish to tell and not one more lie!" Yet at that moment they could converse no further for they had arrived at the great hall.

*****

Despite his display of proper and courtly affection, the Prince of Doriath was anything but calm and it was with great fear in his heart that he first walked, then ran, to the chambers of the king for only on one other occasion had he received such an urgent message from Thingol and that had been at the beginning of the Battle of Beleriand and he wondered what evil was afoot and if it meant that he might have to take up axe and armor once more in defense of his kingdom. Moreover, the behavior of Artanis and her brothers had been extremely peculiar, though he had not questioned them on it.

And he saw indeed that Thingol was wroth and, more than that, nearly sick with worry, for the instant that Celeborn entered his king's chambers Thingol stood, his actions quick with anxiety, his eyes glimmering with anger as he paced about his chambers, restless, a letter clutched tightly in his hand, which he thrust at Celeborn.

"How very worried I was," the King said, his voice a husky whisper, "when I received this letter and knew that you were alone with the children of Finarfin. Verily, I did fear for your very life. Yet glad I am that I received this letter only mere hours before you returned, for my anxiety was but brief. We have had word from Cirdan at the Havens in reply to the letter you sent him. Many long days did he spend in seeking out the information you requested and it seems he has discovered that these past 18 years I have been raising up a nest of vipers in my own house."

With trembling hand the King held out a letter and Celeborn took it from him, recognizing the blue wax seal of Cirdan, and he immediately felt his heart plummet to his shoes, for by Thingol's words and by Cirdan's seal he felt that he already knew what it would contain, what he had long suspected in the darkest corners of his mind. He unfolded the letter then and read it carefully, then once more to be sure that he had understood completely, bypassing the opening pleasantries.

_Rumors have reached us at the mouth of the Sirion regarding the intentions of the Noldor in coming to this land and their actions taken upon leaving Valinor. The sight of the Noldor troubled me at once and I saw clearly writ upon them malice and evil, though I know not from whence it came._

_Here we have heard that a certain doom or curse lies upon the Noldor from which they cannot escape for it was cast upon them by the Valar themselves, whose orders they directly denied in leaving Valinor. It is said that the Teleri made efforts to stop the Noldor from leaving and denied them the use of their ships whereupon the Noldor turned their blades upon our Telerin brethren and slew them in cold blood: men, women, and children alike. Not content merely to take their vengeance upon the Teleri, they have come to this continent with the intention not just of fighting Morgoth, but of exterminating the Telerin race in its entirety, including the Sindar, and they have come here with the intention of perpetrating race warfare._

_I know not whether these tales are true or false but what I can say with finality and assuredness is that they have been spread through malice, though I know not whose malice this be. I must confide in you that I believe the jealousy and infighting amongst the houses of the princes of the Noldor may at last have come to a head as we long feared. And it may be that each of these rumors is true in part with each house of the Noldor propagating the version that best suits his purposes while damaging his rival houses._

_I write to you to warn you, and to beg you to take caution, for I know that you have been friendly with the children of Finarfin and though I know not truly what part they play in this, it is certain that they carry blame of some sort, as do all of the Noldorin princes and I myself cannot help but believe that they too lie under the shadow of murder._

_I beg you forgive the cursory nature of this message for it was sent in haste as I have had dire misgivings of late since receiving your last missive and a great foreboding seems to come upon me as dense and heavy as a fog from the sea. My sole intention was to get this information to you as quickly as I was able, for your health and continued prosperity is my constant and abiding wish._

_Your humble and obedient servant,_

_Cirdan,_

_Lord of the Falathrim_

_Lord of Falas, Eglarest, and Brithombar_

Celeborn felt as though the very air had been sucked from his chest. Cirdan's warning struck him as most fell indeed, for amongst the hot tempered Sindarin kings, Cirdan alone was unshakeable in his placidity and he could well guess that for this very reason Thingol himself was set so ill at ease. They were given to know then that at least some part of these rumors must be true for Cirdan would not have written to them of idle concerns and it mattered not which parts were true and which false, for they were all equally abhorrent.

Celeborn raised a finger to his lips, wondering if he had only but a little while earlier placed them upon the brow of one who had slain his kin and when he took his fingers away he found that they were trembling. It was not the first time that he had heard theses rumors but hearing them from Cirdan himself lent them a serious amount of credence. And now that he found it possible to believe them true, all of Artanis's strange behavior seemed to make sense and Celeborn felt that he was putting the pieces of a gruesome puzzle together, finding, to his horror, that they fell into place with terrifying precision.

"What shall we do?" He asked Thingol, finding his throat dry, a great pounding as of a hammer in his head, smashing against the interior of his skull. He knew not what to think, was unable to feel.

"Artanis may have told us the truth, but it was only the truth in part," Thingol said, anger lurking like magma just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at every moment. "There is yet much that she is concealing from us and I will know the truth in its entirety. No more will I be denied. The children of Finarfin will answer me and they will answer me in full now even if it must be by force that the answer is wrung from their lips." And so saying he took up his great sword, Aranruth, in it scabbard and buckled the belt about his waist. "I will not ask you to draw your blade," the king said, turning to his nephew.

But Celeborn's eyes were hard with anger and he did not hesitate, saying: "My loyalty to you and to this kingdom has always been above reproach and so it remains even now."

"Then I bid you to bring your blade here whilst I summon my personal guard and together shall we go forth to the feast that we have prepared though, alas, we will not go in friendship," Thingol said to the prince and when Celeborn returned to him the guard had already arrived, with Mablung at their head and Galathil, Celeborn's brother and Thingol's herald was there as well, having only just come from the great hall. Then they all set out for the feast they had prepared, but not in friendship as they had anticipated.

When they arrived there it was to find that all who were gathered were in the midst of great merriment, for this feast had been convened as a display of friendship, a time in which lingering anger about the keeping of the secret of the Silmarils and of Finwe's death was meant to be put to rest, a feast born of hope and the promise of making amends. Yet a great silence came over the immense crowd gathered there for all could see as their king entered that he was wroth with great anger and his great sword was buckled about his waist, his hand on the hilt as though ready to draw it at any moment. And at his side was Celeborn, his prince, and he too bore in hand his great battle-axe and upon his face a look closer to loathing than anything they had heretofore seen. Behind them marched the Imperial guard, led by Mablung, their cloaks of midnight blue hanging long down their backs, their black eagle feathers in their hair and their weapons in hand.

Then did a great cry rise up from the Sindar for never before had anyone dared bring a weapon into the great hall of Thingol and they wondered at what should have occurred to cause such a thing. The children of Finarfin leapt to their feet then, like rabbits sniffed out by a hound, for they believed themselves found out and all of their plans and carefully crafted strategies crumbled to ashes at their feet. And Artanis dropped her gaze, not daring to look at Celeborn, fearful the terrible apathy would have turned to dreadful hate.

With flashing eyes and floating hair did Thingol approached Finrod, towering over him and staring down from his great height with a gaze that might have been enough even to send Morgoth himself fleeing in terror and then did Galathil call forth saying: "Rise and stand all of you gathered here, for this is Elu Thingol, called Elwe Singollo, King of Doriath, King of the Sindar, King of the Teleri, High-king and Lord of Beleriand." His voice seemed to reverberate off of the stone walls of the palace until it faded away in an echo and in that ensuing silence Thingol at last spoke to Finrod.

"I'll have you done to me, kinsman, to conceal so great matters from me. For now I have learned of all the evil deeds of the Noldor." His voice was deathly quiet and yet it commanded the attention of all.

But Finrod answered: "What ill have I done you, lord? Or what evil deed have the Noldor done in all your realm to grieve you? Neither against your kingship nor against any of your people have they thought evil or done evil."

"I marvel at you, son of Earwen," said Thingol, "that you would come to the board of your kinsman thus red-handed from the slaying of your mother's kin, and yet say naught in defense, nor yet seek any pardon!" And at his words a great wailing arose for, hearing their king say it, the people at last believed these rumors to be true and many fell down in anguish, mourning for their Telerin brethren.

Then Finrod was greatly troubled, but he was silent, for he could not defend himself, save by bringing charges against the other princes of the Noldor; and that he was loath to do before Thingol. But in Angrod's heart the memory of the words of Caranthir welled up again in bitterness, for when Angrod had first visited Menegroth and brought forth Thingol's message to the Noldor, telling them where they might settle, Caranthir had grown wroth and he had rebuked the children of Finarfin saying: Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be come indeed to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin.

Remembering these words and the way in which his cousin had scorned him for being half of Telerin blood, Angrod could control his heart no longer and he cried: "Lord, I know not what lies you have heard, nor whence; but we came not red-handed. Guiltless we came forth, save maybe of folly, to listen to the words of fell Feanor, and become as if besotted with wine, and as briefly. No evil did we do on our road, but suffered ourselves great wrong; and forgave it. For this we are named tale-bearers to you and treasonable to the Noldor: untruly as you know, for we have of our loyalty been silent before you, and thus earned your anger. But now these charges are no longer to be borne, and the truth you shall know."

Then Thingol passed to his throne and the children of Finarfin sat at his feet and at length Angrod moved to speak but Artanis stayed him, placing her hand upon his arm and saying: "Much do I appreciate your kindness brother, but this is my tale to tell, for it is I who have lived in Menegroth alongside Thingol's people and thus it is I who bears the greater part of the blame. I cannot accept your mercy at the expense of my conscience or of their justice."

It was the most difficult thing that she had ever done and her hands trembled worse than they had even when she had crossed the Helcaraxe. Except now she had not the excuse of the cold to give for her trembling. Her heart pounded within her chest like a hammer upon an anvil and, for a brief moment, she felt sure that her chest would explode from the pressure, that she had not been made with enough strength to withstand this. And she felt profoundly alone, more alone than she had ever felt, for here she was, about to betray the dearest friends she had ever had in her entire life and, worse than that, to make them aware that her betrayal was not sudden, but was built upon a lie that she had been cultivating since first she arrived in their home. At last the poisoned vine was bearing fruit.

Turning then to Thingol, it was with great difficulty that she raised her head to meet his eyes, for her body felt heavier than all the stone of this cave and she spoke saying, "my king, I spoke to you before of the Silmarils and of the deaths of the trees and of the slaying of Finwe, your dear friend, but as you now know, there is much that yet remains unspoken. And, as my brother has only just now said, the words that have reached your ears concerning the coming of the Noldor were spread maliciously though by whom we know not and though I must venture to guess from what I myself have heard that much of it is, indeed, lies as Angrod has said, it is with greatest regret that I must now impart to you that there is also much truth to be had in these rumors."

She turned to their right to see, standing at her father's left hand, Luthien, her best and most dear friend with tears in her eyes, understanding only that something was very wrong. Images flashed unbidden in her mind of how they had danced together beneath the moonlight and tears rose to her eyes. Most difficult of all, she looked to Melian's left to see Celeborn, dressed in his court attire. She still dared not meet his eyes yet it was as if her fea called out to his with an intensity that she had never before experienced. He looked much the same as the first night she had entered this hall. It was fitting somehow, as if things had come full circle at last. Then, she raised her head with what little remaining dignity she could muster and looked Thingol full in the eyes, confessing her guilt for all to hear.

"I ask only that you bear in mind that the blame for this lies on us Noldor alone. Of all those in Menegroth, none save ourselves was aware of this tale and none bear culpability save us." She stopped for a moment to collect herself before continuing, for she felt as though she would fall to pieces with each moment that passed.

"I did not tell you earlier," she continued, "though I found myself on the very verge of doing so, because I had been sworn to secrecy by the Noldorin princes. Yet I do not pretend that this is any excuse for my conduct for I know full well that it is not. In my heart of hearts I know that what truly restrained me was my own selfishness because I have loved my life here and loved my friends here and I did not wish to be exiled. Yet, I can no longer in good conscience keep the truth from you, knowing that every moment you are unaware of it you are placed in constant danger. This then is the truth, the whole and entire truth."

And having so said, she began the full and terrible tale saying thusly, "It is true what the rumors say: that the Valar themselves forbid us from leaving Aman and that we went forth in utter disregard for their command, driven by pride. Upon leaving Valinor, we did not depart separately from the Feanorians as I had previously told you. Indeed, we departed together and, upon reaching Alqualonde, we found that there was no way for us to cross the sea except in the boats of the Teleri. Yet, knowing that we had been forbidden to leave, the Teleri withheld their ships from us." She breathed deeply, for with the next words she spoke, she would not be surprised if they struck her dead where she stood.

"It was then that Feanor demanded that the Teleri surrender his ships to them. But still they refused and… Feanor drew his sword in great anger and struck a blow, beheading the harbor master in a single stroke." At those words a great shout rose up and she saw Celeborn raise his head at last, fear and incomprehension in his eyes as he looked at her. She dropped her gaze, her heart shattering into a thousand fragments, like a fragile glass dropped upon a floor. The cries grew louder and louder until, at last, Thingol bolted upright from his chair like lightening, his face as white as ice.

"SILENCE!" He commanded, the first time she had ever heard him shout so and then he turned furious eyes to her, speaking with a deathly quiet. "You," he pointed a quivering finger at her, "you will continue." And so she swallowed hard, her hands still quivering so that she could barely control herself and, mustering what strength she could find she continued.

"Feanor's sons followed his lead and drew their swords, Fingolfin and his sons as well," she said, her voice quavering now. "They slew the majority of the Teleri, not only those who withheld the ships, but women and children as well and women with children still in the womb, killing indiscriminately, as if they had gone entirely mad." Tears were running freely down her face now but she did not raise her hands to wipe them away. She stopped to collect herself before continuing.

"You began this story and now you must find the courage to finish it," Thingol said to her, his voice colder than she had ever heard it. "Look at me," he growled and she obeyed, raising her eyes to his face. "Continue," he commanded. Behind him she could see Melian and there was no kindness in her eyes either. "Tell me of your role in this perversion," he said.

"I drew my spear in defense of the Teleri," she said, though it seemed now a pitiful excuse. Kinslaying was kinslaying and it did not matter that it was not the Teleri she had slain.

"You defended the Teleri?" Thingol asked.

"I did. My brother's host arrived towards the end of the massacre and we were not entirely sure of the situation. Yet, we saw our mother's people being slaughtered and rushed to their aid. Finrod and Aegnor had no part in the killing. But Angrod and myself slew Feanor's soldiers."

"You killed Feanor and Fingolfin's men?" Thingol asked. She paused, swallowing.

"Yes, I did." She said.

"You killed another elf?" Thingol asked again, forcing her to repeat herself.

Yes." She said. Thingol paced to and fro, his movements full of kinetic energy as if he might reach out and strike her at any moment.

"How many?" He asked at last.

"Twelve." She said.

"How can you be sure?" He spat.

"I will never forget their faces," she said.

"If that is the only payment you must make on your debt then I have no pity in my heart for you and your ilk," Thingol said. "But you will continue, for now that I am at last hearing this long delayed tale I will have you tell it to the very last letter and I will allow you to delay no longer. Tell me of what happened after the Teleri were slain for you came across the Helcaraxe did you not?"

"That is true," she replied. "For during the battle there was great confusion indeed and my brothers and I and our father as well proceeded by land but Feanor's people had managed to take the ships of the Teleri and they proceeded by sea, and together we arrived at the land near the Helcaraxe. There, standing atop the great mountains of the waste of Araman we suddenly beheld a dark figure looking down upon the shore and we perceived this to be Mandos himself and from this figure ushered forth a loud voice, solemn and terrible, that bade us stand and give ear. Then all halted and stood still, and the voice cursed those of us who would not stay nor seek the doom and pardon of the Valar.

'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.

'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Ea, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.'"

Then did Celeborn truly understand the words that Galadriel had spoken to him those years ago when first they began their courtship, imploring him not to ask her the reason but telling him that all things must be at his doing and that, as much as she might yearn to, whatever was to be between them could not be done by her hand.

"Hearing these words," Artanis said, "many repented of their actions and turned back towards Valinor to return to their homes and beg pardon of the Valar. Among these went Finarfin my father and though he begged me with tears in his eyes to return with him so that my mother need not lose all of her children at once, I denied him his wish and resolved to go forward as did my brothers.

Those of us who were determined to go forward then continued and at last we stood at the very mouth of the grinding ice itself and there did we stop and debate for a long while, for there were not enough ships to bear us all across the sea and to cross the ice appeared to us to be certain death. That night there sprang up a great mist and, when in the morning it cleared, we awoke to find that Feanor and his host had slipped away in the night. For a while we thought that he meant to return with some ships to ferry us across as well until one night from far off we saw a great fire and smoke rising to the sky from a far shore and we knew ourselves betrayed by Feanor. It was then that we were left with no choice but to cross the grinding ice and this we did, as I have previously told you, and now at last you have learned the full tale," she said. "And if I might make but one request of you, my king, it is this: I beg you, I beg of you," the words tumbled from her mouth. "Do not ever allow a Silmaril to pass into Doriath. The sons of Feanor will stop at nothing. They will slaughter each and every one of you in their quest to fulfill their oath."

"A Silmaril!" Thingol shouted, descending from his throne to stop before her and grasp her chin in his strong hand, hurting her. "Why should I fear letting a Silmaril pass my borders when already a snake has slithered in! I ought to have feared you! Instead I welcomed you, treated you as my kin, nurtured your friendship with my own daughter, made you an apprentice of my wife, fed you, clothed you, allowed my nephew to court you! YOU ARE FILTH!" He turned, his hand flying through the air, and he only managed to stop it a mere hair's breath away from her face, where he held it trembling as he stared at her with wild red rimmed eyes. She had no doubt that he had struck with the intention of hitting her, only restraining himself at the last moment.

"Do you have any IDEA of the damage that you people have done?" he shouted. There was no proper response and so Artanis and her brothers remained silent as he returned to his throne and sat.

Then did Angrod speak again, saying, "Wherefore should we that endured the Grinding Ice bear the name of kinslayers and traitors?"

"Yet the shadow of Mandos lies on you also," said Melian. But Thingol was long silent ere he spoke.

"Go now!" he said. "For my heart is hot within me. Later you may return, if you will, for I will not shut my doors forever against you, my kindred that were ensnared in an evil that you did not aid. With Fingolfin and his people also I will keep friendship, for they have bitterly atoned for such ill as they did. And in our hatred of the Power that wrought all this woe our griefs shall be lost. But hear my words! Never again in my ears shall be heard the tongue of those who slew my kin in Alqualonde! Nor in all my realm shall it be openly spoken, while my power endures. All the Sindar shall hear my command that they shall neither speak with the tongue of the Noldor nor answer to it. And all such as use it shall be held slayers of kin and betrayers of kin unrepentant."

The people dispersed then, like so many leaves scattered upon the breeze, and in the silence that followed, the children of Finarfin stood, the fire of the souls extinguished as a candle in a mine so that now they felt the poison of the choices they had made working upon them.

Then did Thingol turn to Celeborn, finding within his anger some modicum of pity for his nephew and said, "if you wish for a moment in private to speak to Galadriel before she leaves then I shall grant you that."

But Celeborn merely shook his head, an almost imperceptible movement, and said, "there is none called Galadriel here."

**End Part I**


	14. Kings of Sand and Stone

  
**Kings of Sand and Stone**

In Cavern's Shade: 14th Chapter

*****

"Thus with my lips have I denounced you,  
while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.  
It was love lashed by its own self that spoke.  
It was pride half slain that fluttered in the dust.  
It was my hunger for your love that raged from the housetop,  
while my own love, kneeling in silence, prayed your forgiveness."

\- Khali Gibran 

*****

**Author's note:** First, as always, thank you for reading. Secondly, this is the first chapter of the second part of this story, which stretches from chapters 14-26. Lastly, this chapter and the next one deal with some pretty serious issues for several characters and some of the content is a little disturbing. I know this can be difficult but I hope you will understand that I am not doing this for shock value but because I genuinely believe in portraying realistic reactions to difficult situations. If this bothers anyone you are more than welcome to PM me and I will do my best to address your concerns.

*****

If he had ever anticipated that something like this would happen he might have expected that he would feel hurt, betrayed, furious, any number of emotions, but the one thing that he did feel was the one thing he could never have predicted: it was the dreary, trudging, boredom that seemed to plod from one day to the next so that a month seemed like a year, a week like a month, a day like a week, an hour like a day and his entire, interminable, immortal life a burden that stretched out beyond his ability to bear it.

He knew that they were worried, all of them. Melian had taken to stopping by for tea on a frequent basis, Luthien was ever so careful as to invite him to all of her parties though he went to nearly none of them, Thingol had taken him hunting, and shooting, and even stopped by his chambers every so often just to pass the time. Galathil seemed more boisterous than normal, Beleg and Mablung had tried their hardest to get him drunk on more than one occasion, and cousin Oropher, normally so hot headed and sulky, had taken to frequenting the baths with him. His time was certainly occupied, but that did not make it any more full. He found himself more surrounded by friends nowadays than at any other point in his life and yet, even in the midst of all of them, he felt as though everything were so very dull that he could hardly stand it.

She had left a few things behind on the night that she fled with her brothers, nothing much, only small things that had been forgotten in the haste of packing. He had not returned to his chambers until after she had gone and then he had found them, an elegant wooden hairbrush that had fallen beneath the bed, a diamond hairpin in the rug, a veil in a drawer, a yellow rose he had given her, preserved. He had burned them all in the fireplace while Galathil watched, a concerned look on his normally cheerful face. Celeborn did not want his brother's pity.

"Perhaps you will regret having destroyed them," his younger brother had ventured to say. "There is sometimes good, even in that which is bad." But Celeborn had only shaken his head.

"When a healer draws out poison do they leave even a drop behind?" He had asked Galathil in return.

The monotony of his days had only been broken by the leaving of the dwarves. He had tried to prevent it for so long, poured so much of his own time and energy into this project that he would have expected to feel disappointed at the least, angered at the worst. And yet it had only barely managed to intrigue him. He stood by, watching in silence as they packed up their tools, the instruments of their pride. He had nothing to say to them, for much bitterness had passed between the dwarves of Nogrod and the elves of Menegroth and the wounds were now too deep and too old to heal. And they had nothing to say to him for the same reason. But he oversaw the process nevertheless, for Thingol had asked it of him.

A few hours later they were gone and it was as if they had never been there. The fires of the forges were clean and cold, as if they had never been lit. How easy it was, he thought, to erase the traces of an existence. How simple to make it appear as if someone had never been. But the forgetting was long. Memories could not be wiped away like soot. A heart could not be extinguished like fire. Water might quench a sword but it could not quench a mind.

His days were as empty and dull as his nights. It was difficult to sleep at first, as it so often is when one is accustomed to sleeping beside someone and then, suddenly, finds them so utterly gone. His body seemed to have forgotten how to manage it on his own. And he could not even fill those sleepless hours with thoughts, for he had none, none of any significance, none of any importance. Nothing seemed to pique his curiosity; nothing seemed to draw his interest.

It was winter again and the woods were painted white. The birds were the only color in the grey basin of the world. Red cardinals. Bluejays. He had killed a bear, a great and ferocious bear. Its hot blood had run steaming red out onto the white snow. There was too much blood but his hand had seemed to move of its own volition, the axe flashing down again and again and again. He had never killed like that. The pelt was rather more ruined than was suitable but he had it made into a rug nevertheless. It wasn't much of a feat. His chambers still felt cold. And the bear's head, glassy eyed, stared down at him now from the wall. I shouldn't have killed it, he thought to himself. Everything grew dull in death.

Sometimes he still found one of her golden hairs hidden in the bed and it was only at those times that he felt any real anger. It was irrational, he knew, but he could not help but think that she had done it intentionally to disturb him. That even from Nargothrond she was tormenting him. He burned those too, when he found them. The smell of hair in a fire was distinctly unpleasant. It reminded him of death. All his life he would never forget the way the earth had smelled after the Battle of Beleriand

There was a pretty girl that he used to know who worked for a baker and he had sought her out a time or two, toying with her briefly in abandoned corridors or hidden chambers. She had smelled of flour and cleanliness. At times she seemed intimidated by him. Their social strata were so very different as to be jarring and she seemed nervous when she was with him because he was, after all, the Prince of Doriath. She was a mere baker's apprentice. He had ejaculated on her stomach once. It had been an accident, he hadn't meant to, and she had looked at him with fear. So he had given it up quickly, for it had not cured his insomnia and, besides, he nearly felt as though he were forcing himself upon her, as if she felt that she could not say no. And, after all, he still felt nothing.

A murderess, a genocide – he had not expected that. A thousand upon a thousand times had he pondered what her secret must be. Yet he had always assumed her innocent of blame, presumed her culpable of nothing more than misplaced loyalty, of protecting brothers, and cousins, and kin. Yet her own mother's kin had been slain, his kin, Elu's kin, and though she had stood with the Teleri, unjustly attacked by fell Feanor, still she herself had slain her father's kin in their defense. Even if he had been able to understand the logic of the killing it was the keeping of the secret that he could not comprehend and would never be able to, even if he had cared to puzzle over it, which he did not. She had lied to their faces in every hour, with every breath. It was a simple truth and an uninteresting one.

"Do you know how to tell when someone is lying?" Thingol had asked him when he was a child, barely tall enough to reach the king's waist. A parentless orphan, he had ridden on the King's horse, before the King's saddle and in that seat the King himself, his uncle, had carefully groomed him to rule.

"No," he had replied.

"You will know someone is lying," the king said, "whenever he opens his mouth."

He went to court and the retainers and soldiers came and went; he gave orders and judged and appointed and deposed and bade and forbade. He went to the forest and the seasons came and went; he tracked and hunted and surveyed and fought and killed. He went to the festivals and the years came and went; he laughed and cheered and made merry and smiled and joked. Time crept by in its petty pace from day to day and all that went unchanged was the hollowness that filled him.

After it had first happened he noticed that people had a habit of falling suddenly silent whenever he entered a room, in that way that they do when they have just been talking of you. He cared little what they said. As with all matters, there were bound to be those who were sympathetic and those who were hostile. Saeros would be stirring up all sorts of malcontent directed at the Noldor, and having an easy time of it in this political climate no doubt. Celeborn found that he did not care. After all, it was no one's business and he wanted sympathy even less than he welcomed hostility.

Luthien had gotten a new puppy. It was so joyful and energetic, full of glee, bounding about and nipping at her skirts. Celeborn did not like when they were like that, teething, biting at everything. Older dogs were more to his liking, but Luthien loved puppies, as she loved all things new and young. She had thrown sticks for it out on the lawns and played with it in the great hall and had let it eat from her plate. One day they had found it dead, for no discernable reason. Its body had simply given out, though it was but young, some health defect no doubt, bad breeding. Or, perhaps, Celeborn thought, it had just grown sick of everything and died, he had heard that Finwe's first wife had done the same. Luthien had cried, and Celeborn had wondered why he couldn't.

Her name had become a curse, a word as filthy as the speech of orcs. None dared speak it. It was almost as though they believed that the mention of her might conjure her. Celeborn cursed his people for their superstition. That elevated things to the level of legend when, in fact, what had happened had been so very horribly real. He wished they would not be so afraid to speak of it, to speak of her. She was no god, no witch, no sorceress fallen from grace, only a girl, nothing more than a girl, a girl who had made extraordinarily bad decisions. They need not be frightened of a girl. He need not be frightened of a girl.

This palace was the finest in middle earth, the thousand caves, the hidden kingdom, a wonder of wonders and yet, in the midst of halls filled with all of the most beautiful things that the earth had to offer, the hollowness, the boredom, the dullness, the monotony, the tedium of years upon end threatened to drive Celeborn mad. On sleepless days he paced the halls, all one thousand of them, he had the time. He had been driven mad and the madness drove him and he laughed to himself about the irony of all of it. If anyone had seen him they would have thought him insane; maybe they were right; maybe he was. His world had been broken apart like an egg, a perfect and delicate suspension in chalky shell dropped suddenly to the floor, all of its grace, all of its perfect beauty smashed on cobblestones while the yellow yolk of his heart ran out, so unceremoniously until there was none of it left and only the fragments of a shell remained. And in his mind he thought a thought, a horrible, dreadful, awful thought: was this how Feanor's sons felt?

The door to Thingol's chambers was thick and it was the middle of the day but Celeborn did not care. He pounded upon the oak with hard fists until at last the valet came, opening the door for him, and waited not to see whether he would be admitted or not, but entered anyway. Melian and Thingol were there, both in their dressing gowns, clearly just having awoken at his knocking, and Celeborn spoke.

"You must send me from this place," he said, his voice as hollow as he felt. "I can endure it no longer. Madness comes upon me."

*****

After all of these years, Nargothrond was finally finished, or at least that is what Finrod said, though withdrawal of financial support by the Sindar had been a grave blow indeed. Moreover, without military support from Doriath the need for secrecy was considerably heightened and Finrod withdrew his guards from the outer boundaries, recalling them to Nargothrond until a new strategy could be devised.

Having returned from Menegroth, the Lord of Nargothrond had refrained for many years from speaking to his sister of what had transpired between her and Celeborn in the end, for though he loved each of them, he still bore resentment towards his friend for exacerbating, though he had done so unknowingly, the rift between him and his sister and he had deemed most unwise their swift tumble into things that in his opinion ought to be reserved for marriage. These were matters he had long thought he had lain to rest but Thingol's treatment of them in wake of the news of the kinslaying, no matter how justified, had brought his darker thoughts to surface once more.

In those thoughts he had been Celeborn's judge and jury, holding him guilty of lust unchecked but in his more moderate times he recalled how the Sindar were, being long accustomed to death and keen to make the most of the fleeting nature of life, more apt to give in to bodily and emotional urges. He wanted to hold his sister unaccountable, to presume her innocent, a pure maiden led astray by her dark lover, yet on the days when he found that he was truly able to admit things to himself, he knew that, as he and Celeborn had discussed, his friend would never have forced her hand, that Artanis, as ever, made her own decisions, and that Celeborn's utter disregard for propriety had ever been an irresistible lure to his rebellious sister. Thus it was not merely that she had agreed, or even that she had been lured, but most likely that the both of them had traipsed merrily across a line that ought not to have been crossed, mocking it all the way. But, in his heart of hearts he knew that, in truth, his anger stemmed merely from the fact that he hated seeing her hurt, walking about Nargothrond as though she were nothing more than a shadow of her former self, and he wished that Celeborn had rejected her from the first, or that she had rejected him, rather than that they build a doomed love and then suffer its consequences.

He and Angrod had shared sparse and tense conversations on their return to Nargothrond before his two younger brothers had returned to their home, yet Artanis had been entirely silent and Finrod was not one to prod a wound that was still sore or rub salt into a cut that was fresh. Yet, though Finrod had the good sense to hold his tongue, Celegorm did not, indeed, his cousin was renowned for doing the opposite. Thus it was with much trepidation that Finrod received the word that his cousin had accepted his invitation to the feast in celebration of Nargothrond's completion.

The ever conscientious Finrod had had the naugrim craft the flatware especially for this occasion, for Celegorm was liable to disdain silver and he was certain to show outright contempt for bronze or steel and so gold it was. How very politic of him, Artanis thought of her brother as she turned her fork, watching the crest, finely engraved on the handle, as it twinkled in the glowing candlelight, to have the seal of Finwe rather than that of father emblazoned upon these. And it irritated her more than a little, for she would rather not go to such lengths, or indeed any lengths at all, to curry the favor of their cousins and was content to remain a vassal of Thingol, even if it was as a fiefdom in name only, the military and financial support having been withdrawn after the king had learned of the kinslaying.

"A bit too…" Celegorm gestured at the fixtures of the room with his fork, as carelessly as if it had been cast of pewter rather than solid gold, "…too much of a Moriquendi bent for it to be entirely to my liking, yet, yes, the greater part of it appeals to me in the utmost. An accomplishment, cousin, surely; you ought to be proud."

"I am, I am," said Finrod with a genial laugh. Artanis gave the room a quick glance. There was far too little of a Sindarin bent to this place for it to be of any liking to her at all. Nargothrond was as loathsome to her as it was pleasing to her brother. At least, she thought to herself, it is finished now and I shan't have plaster falling on my head anymore. Menegroth too had been a cave and yet you never would have imagined it, but Nargothrond made her feel as if she were in a prison and she was not sure whether it was the walls or her thoughts that caged her.

"And how good to see Galad…forgive me…Artanis, here in her brother's house, with her own kinsmen," Celegorm said with a smile but his words were met only by his cousin's dark gaze, for she knew well that he kept things in memory for a long while, particularly things he had deemed an affront, and so she knew with certainty that he had been purposeful in his "slip" of the tongue. Yet there was no satisfactory reply to Celegorm's statement and so she remained silent.

Presently, Celegorm turned his conversation back to her brother saying; "But frankly Finrod, I do not see how you shall marry her off suitably now, though Curufin tells me that Celebrimbor is still somewhat willing…despite the assorted perversions she has taken part in. Nevertheless, perhaps we might be able to sweep all of that under the rug, call it rumors, spread by the Sindar in an effort to discredit us. After all, mayhap the time has arrived at last to forge an alliance between the house of Feanor and the house of Finarfin."

Finrod chewed slowly, loathe to give any answer at all and Artanis turned, looking at her brother with horror, for Celegorm had just offered Finrod his dearest desire the promise of protection, of reconciliation, but…surely he could not be thinking…such a thing was against the customs of the Eldar, marriages of alliance…yet it was not as though they had any compunctions about breaking with the customs of the Eldar in Alqualonde. Not Finrod, her dearest brother…surely he would not. She looked furtively towards Aegnor and Angrod at the other end of the table, but they were engaged in conversation with some of Finrod's counselors and seemed not to have heard.

"I do not know cousin," said Finrod at last, setting his fork down and folding his hands before him. But Artanis saw the doubt in his eyes, the indecision, and could feel the fury building inside her. How dare he! How dare he even think of selling her off to Celebrimbor as if she were worth nothing more than a horse? If only Celeborn were here… he would never have hesitated as Finrod did, but would have rebuked her cousin immediately and harshly.

Fueled by anger she set her fork down hard and it clanged loudly against the crystal plate as she said, "it was not a perversion!" Celegorm raised his eyebrows and turned to Artanis in feigned surprise. "Celeborn and I, our love was not a perversion." She said firmly, her eyes hard.

"I do not know how you could bring yourself to touch him without growing sick at the thought," her cousin remarked, lazily picking at the greens on his plate, "for I will admit that there are some fair Sindarin maids, but whenever I contemplate making love to a Moriquendi I find that the idea repulses me…as it naturally should. They are inferior beings, mentally deficient."

"You know naught of what you speak," Artanis said curtly, clenching her fists in her lap. She knew that Celegorm was intentionally provoking her and yet she could not bear to sit idly by and listen to him.

"Artanis," Finrod hissed, "I beg of you, do not make a scene."

"You ought to be grateful, at least, that Celebrimbor still desires you, for many a man has loved you but how long could they stand your company Artanis? All of them were soon gone, and not all because you turned them away. You are a woman who does not know her place, who longs for power and glory and kingdoms when she ought to be contented with a loom and a harp and elflings playing about her feet." He said it as if it were matter of fact, as though he were explaining something simple to a child and she could feel the walls closing in about her, confining her as ever she had felt when speaking to his father. And Artanis wondered that one who was the son of fearless Nerdanel might say such a thing. "There are few men who can stomach such a woman. Indeed, most would be…put off…by the prospect."

"Celeborn did not mind my strength, indeed, he admired it," Artanis shot back.

"A simpleton – who thought to put the golden crown of Finwe upon his tarnished silver head," Celegorm spat.

"He cares nothing at all for crowns," Artanis replied, her eyes burning with fury.

"And is this not further evidence of his backwardness?" Celegorm asked. "For princes ought to desire kingship, indeed, that is what they are raised for. Yet this Prince of the twilight elves would have no further ambition but to remain a prince for now until eternity."

"Why should he clamor for kingship for himself when he is the prince of the finest king in all of Middle Earth?" She replied. "Indeed, it is because of Thingol's example that Celeborn first loved me, for Melian the queen is as I am, even as Celeborn is like his uncle and their whole kingdom thrives because of their marriage. In me he saw the hope of a similar union, equally blessed, and he wanted the same for himself; there is no wrong in that."

But Celegorm just laughed and shook his head. "I marvel at you cousin," he said, "for this Moriquendi has spurned you entirely and still you pine for him like a dog wanting for a bone."

"Will you say nothing?" Artanis asked, turning to her brother. "You once called Celeborn your friend!" But Finrod said nothing to disturb the burgeoning silence and at last Celegorm turned back to the King of Nargothrond.

"Still, let there not be bitterness between us cousin, for, as I say, better a Sinda than a green elf," he laughed good-naturedly. "We have such a hard time with them for they seem to understand so little of our customs and they go about dressed nearly in rags. Sometimes I wonder if they are simple in the head." He laughed again. "I thought that all of the Moriquendi might be thus, yet I was surprised to see that the Sindar have managed to scrape together some semblance of a culture and civilization, despite their lack of education. The green elves though, they have no sophistication whatsoever."

"Have you had trouble with them?" Finrod asked.

"Nothing much, just territorial disputes mostly, but a good display of military force puts them in their place quickly enough, yelping and scurrying about like kicked puppies." Their cousin laughed as he dabbed at his mouth with the fine cloth napkin, staining it red with juice from the beef. "It is poor Maedhros who is really having a time of it, though it is the Sindar who plague him, those ones who live on the outskirts of Doriath. Their living so near to the girdle of Melian and so far from the capital seems to have made them more like the Laiquendi, living in huts and the like, but they are Sindar in mind, warlords with all of same barbarity and unafraid to pick a fight, not like the green elves who are shy and keep to the shadows."

"It is only because of the goodness of the green elves that we are alive," Artanis said. "You ought not speak of them so. For when we came to this earth naked and starving they clothed us and gave us food to eat."

"For you that might be true," Celegorm said. "But the sons of Feanor were well prepared when we came to these shores and were not so weak as to necessitate that we accept aid from any of the Moriquendi."

"Because you abandoned the house of Fingolfin and the house of Finarfin to cross the –"

"Artanis!" Finrod spoke harshly to her, holding out his hand in a sign that she ought to stop speaking. Already Celegorm was growing wroth, his eyes clouding over with ire at the fact that she had brought up that forbidden matter.

"Tell me Celegorm, what has happened with the Sindar?" Finrod asked and gradually their cousin's ire abated. Yet Artanis wondered that her brother could have become so cold-hearted that he could sit and listen to the prejudiced speech from their cousin about those who had shown them nothing but kindness.

"Maedhros's people have discovered veins of gold at Himring and have been cutting the forests there so that they might dig mines into the mountain. There are several Sindarin cities in that region that claim this activity has caused mudslides and that the timber that has been cut is washing down into their cities, killing their citizens."

"Is that so?" Finrod asked, and for the first time Artanis saw hints of uneasiness in his grey eyes.

"But you know what I say to that?" Celegorm asked with a laugh. "Anyone who would rather live at the bottom of a hill than at the top deserves as much!"

"Have you grown so cold hearted, Finrod, that you would willingly sit and listen to such filth in your own halls?" Artanis queried later, when she had at last gotten her brother alone.

"I listened only so as not to make him angry, so as not to place you in peril. Celegorm is dangerous! It would not do for either of us to end up on the wrong side of him. You certainly need not fear that I will take action based on any of our cousins' suggestions," Finrod snapped. "Perhaps that is a lesson you should learn, sister, to sit in silence more often."

"And thereby lend credence to what he said?" She fumed.

"Silence does not equate agreement," he replied. "It is diplomacy, not to anger those you cannot afford to anger."

"It does," she said. "A willingness to listen is tacit approval. Have you ever thought that that is why you are not married?"

Her words stopped him in his tracks, cutting through his heart as if they were the sharpest of blades. Her visions, her intuition of others feelings, as ever that skill of hers enabled her to see his deepest insecurities so clearly and lay them bare in the garish light with so little tact and sense.

"What was it you said?" His voice was deathly silent as he turned towards her, the torchlight of the corridor flickering across her furious face.

"You are weak as sand, yielding to whatever comes your way," she condemned him. "A coward who takes a stand for nothing and no one. Have you forgotten how Amarie wanted you, nay begged you to stay for her, how she pleaded? Have her words truly grown so cold in your heart that they are but a faint memory? Yet even then her supplications could not sway you and you yielded instead to the pressure of Feanor, of our cousins. You would not stand with her and now you refuse to stand with me! In Doriath they stand for what they believe in, not like here!"

Yet even as she spoke, a dark foreboding came over Felagund and he cried out, saying; "you claim that I will be bound by no oath and to no one, but an oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit!" And Artanis trembled at his words as he returned to himself, for they were fell indeed.

"Finrod…" she stammered.

But Felagund's heart was hot with pain and anger and so he lashed out at his sister, saying, "and what of you? Who are you to speak to me of such things? You say that I have brought Amarie to pain and you have said earlier that Celeborn would stand strong where I faltered. Yet what has he profited by taking his stand? For he stood for you and trusted you, thinking that he had built the foundations of his house on solid ground. Yet where has his decisiveness gotten him Artanis? It has brought him only a world full of pain, for you tore down the stones of that happy house he had built with so little care and so much cruelty."

And at his words, Artanis turned and fled, for Finrod had cut her deeply, even as deeply as she had cut him.

She slammed the heavy double doors to her chambers, the sound echoing off of the Spartanly furnished rooms like a gong in an empty hall. It was with considerable restraint that I acted, she thought to herself. She had certainly offended Celegorm, though not to the extent that he deserved to be offended, and she was equally certain that her brother would be in a huff over the things she had said for many days, begging her to remember that their cousins were valuable allies. Yet Artanis cared not, for the anger was still churning within her heart, and she paced forward angrily, throwing open the doors to her bedchamber before she stopped, turning back, removing her golden slipper and hurling it at the entryway for good measure, where it struck the closed doors and fell to the floor. Childish, she knew, but she found that she did not care. Impatiently, she tugged at the restrictive laces of her gown, longing for the days when she had worn the loose and airy Sindarin dresses, longing for everything, everything of Doriath and to be far, so far away from Nargothrond.

"My lady!" Her maids scurried about, removing the heavy clothing from her body, retrieving the slipper she had thrown. "Shall we draw you a bath, bring you refreshment, brush your hair?" They asked her, clearly concerned by her volatile mood, and she felt guilty for worrying them so.

"No, no, thank you. Please, do not trouble yourselves. I only wish to be alone," she said to them politely. "I apologize…for my temper." The maids bowed, leaving quietly, and Artanis donned her dressing gown overtop of her chemise, clutching it tightly about her though the room was not cold. She paced for a moment, her heart grown heavy in the wake of her anger, and looked up at the dull and lifeless ceiling of Nargothrond, so unlike the living wonder of Menegroth.

Her anger had drained from her what energy her cousin had allowed her to retain and it was wearily that she sank into her bed, the softness of the goose down providing little comfort, for it was her heart rather than her body that plagued her. The guilt seeped slowly into her fea. Finrod was right, she had spoken Celeborn's name at the feast, spoken about him, with lips and tongue not worthy of his name. The tears gathered in her eyes, as ever they did when she recalled his memory, even after all of these years, and she raised her hands, digging her fingers into her scalp in frustration. Yet here, in the privacy of her chambers, she did not wipe them away, but allowed them to run freely down her cheeks.

Though decades had passed, it seemed to her not so very long ago that she had passed that first wondrous night in his bed, memorizing the lines of his body, marveling in the depths of his green eyes, her fingers caught in his silver hair, like a shower of stars. And he had held her close, equally as entranced by her, his rough fingers gentle upon her skin, his lips soft against her own, and they had lain in each other's embrace, speaking of love, and dreams, and stories of long ago. It was then that he had asked her for the third time.

_"Why did you leave Aman?" And Galadriel had shifted in his embrace, a bit unnerved, for she had hoped that he would have abandoned this question by now, and yet he had not._

_"Will you not tell me," He asked, "not even now that we have spoken to each other of love?" But Galadriel shied at those words and cast her eyes away from his so that he might not discern the truth of her thoughts from her gaze._

_"It seems to me that you would leverage that love against me now to learn what it is that you wish to know," she said, her heart having been chilled by his words. Yet even as she said it she knew that it was not what he had said, but the secret that she kept which caused that shudder to reverberate throughout her heart. But Celeborn pressed a reconciliatory kiss to her shoulder and said._

_"Forgive me, for it was not my intent to manipulate you. It is merely…" and he paused, as if growing unsure, something so very foreign to his temperament that it caused Galadriel to sit up and take note, meeting his gaze once more, "merely that it makes me feel as though you trust me not at all."_

_"Celeborn…" she said softly, raising her hand to caress his face, for the intimacy of his words had surprised her somewhat and, moreover, moved her heart. "Nay," she said, "it is not that I do not trust you, for I do trust you. It is that to speak of that matter is a heavy thing and not something I would undertake lightly, for each time I speak of it I feel the pain as if the wound itself were fresh. If you would have me speak to you of this matter then I would wish to know why."_

_"Because the coming of your people into these lands spoke as of the footsteps of doom. Foresight I have not, but even I, who have not your prescience, sense that the end draws nigh." He said, speaking his thoughts plainly._

_"Then I will tell you," she said, though his words had frightened her." You know of some of it in bits and pieces already. I cannot speak for all of my people, but of my own motivation I can tell you. You said once before that Aman must be like paradise and it must be folly to leave such a land to come to one so marred. Yet even the most beautiful of prisons is still a jail, though its bars be of gold._

_"A prison?" He asked, rolling onto his back, and crossing his arms behind his head._

_"Everything and everyone was so set in their ways," she said laying her head on his chest so that she could look at his face, her fingers gently, absentmindedly moving slowly across the planes and muscles of him, "it was as though my life was already decided for me. My father is the third son of Finwe and I am the fourth child of my father. I could have nothing for my own; it was all already someone else's. Always was I bending to the will of others and there was nothing for me to shape in the way that I wished."_

_Celeborn laughed. "And is it so different here?"_

_"Melian has told me of many lands that are yet uninhabited," she said._

_"But I am the Prince of Doriath," he said, "and so in Doriath I must remain." And the implications of what he had said weighed upon her as a heavy yoke._

_"But surely," he said, "there is more to the tale than this, is there not?" He drew her atop him and she crossed her arms over his chest, perching her head upon their intersection._

_"Yes," she said, "but I cannot speak to you of it freely, for I am sworn to say nothing of it to Thingol and, were I to speak to you of it ere the tale reached his ears, your loyalty to your realm could be drawn into question. Believe me when I say that I remain silent for your own good."_

_Celeborn sighed, a troubled look creasing his brow, for though he knew it was true that whatever secret she kept should be told to Thingol first, he wondered at her logic. "And is it not treasonous enough for me to know you keep a secret from my King that he ought to hear but continue to allow you to keep it?"_

_"I beg you, Celeborn," she said, worry in her eyes, remembering the curse of Mandos, "in time you will know, even as Thingol shall, but until then know that in all matters of our courtship things must be initiated by your hand and not mine."_

_"Why is that?" he asked her, brow furrowed._

_"Please," she said, stroking his hair back from his face, "only trust me that it must be so."_

_And he seemed to deliberate in his mind for a while but finally he smiled and said, "very well then. But you shall never be able to convince me that it isn't because you are lazy and wish for me to do all the work." She laughed, but that laughter was soon stifled by his kiss and, soon enough they found that there were other things to keep them busier than such a somber conversation._

Artanis rubbed at her eyes, the tears having long since dried upon her cheeks, leaving behind only salty reminders that they had once flowed there, and let out a long and shuddering sigh. It had been nearly thirty years since her exile from Menegroth and still her memories of him were so painfully clear that they might have happened yesterday. There were still nights where she dreamed of him, where the heat of him still seemed to be imprinted upon her body, where she nearly believed that he would be there beside her when she awoke. There was no doubt in her mind as to the feelings that she bore him, no doubt whatsoever; she loved him, madly. And he no longer loved her.

At times the pain seemed nearly unbearable: the pain of being entirely isolated and alone, of having lost those she loved. And then there was the guilt, the oppressive guilt of what she had done, of the lies she had told, the friends she had deceived. It weighed upon her as though she wore a millstone about her neck.

She should have known that it was an impossibility, that it had been an impossibility from the start. His loyalty would ever be to Doriath and to Thingol just as her loyalty, in some part, must always belong to her own people. And it did not matter if that was the smaller of the parts, for there was ever the potential that it could be the germ of division between them. He was a prince of Doriath and a prince of Doriath could not take to wife one who might divide his loyalties. But knowing that their love had always been destined for failure did not make that loss any easier.

"Have you forgotten, Finrod, that it was but a few years ago that you and Celegorm discussed a marriage between Celebrimbor and I? I certainly have not forgotten; I was there if you care to recall!" Artanis fumed, stalking back and forth before her brother's throne. "Now you tell me that he is already here when you doubtlessly knew he was coming some weeks prior! Can you not understand at all why I might feel betrayed by you?" She crossed her arms, glaring at her brother.

"And do you truly believe that I would encourage you to do something that I thought might not be conducive to your happiness?" Finrod asked her, deeply wounded.

"For the sake of your precious alliance with our cousins? Yes!" She spat, livid as a viper. "Cats do not change their stripes and neither will they!"

"Artanis! Sister!" Finrod descended from his throne, placing his hands on her shoulders, but Artanis shrugged them off angrily. "Artanis! I thought that this rift between us had long since been healed! Believe me when I say that I am not motivated in this by any sort of political factor. Do not let the words of Celegorm poison your heart!" Finrod cried.

"Oh is that so?" She said skeptically, beginning to stalk back and forth again.

"You do not know," Finrod said, his voice full of worry, "how much it pains me to see you waste away in grief after Celeborn! Do you think that I have not heard your tears as I passed by your room in the night, or noticed your deep sorrow, or how you take no delight in things that you used to love. You are a shadow of yourself."

"It is not only for him that I mourn," she replied, "but also for the person that I used to be, for the city that I loved, for the future that was promised but now is lost forever. You have your dream, Finrod," she gestured madly about at the palace, "you have your Nargothrond. What of my dreams, what of my ambitions?"

"My dream? I would rather have your happiness than this entire palace," Finrod said. "But your happiness ought not depend on him, or upon Doriath, or Menegroth, or any of it! You can find joy in this world still Artanis! Celebrimbor has much to recommend him: he is one of the chief smiths of Gondolin, a man of keen mind, very handsome in appearance, skilled in all manner of arts, a courageous warrior, and possessed of a kind heart."

"He is not so kind as you think," she said, "he is extraordinarily possessive, most especially of me."

"Why can you not at least speak to him? Why can you not accept that he may have grown in character? You have not seen him for nearly a century now."

"And I have been all the happier for it," Artanis retorted.

"You are not happy now," Finrod said and Artanis stopped her pacing. "Perhaps you will find that you could be happy with him. You could be a lady of Gondolin, Artanis, everything that you want he can offer to you, and he will. At least speak to him, I beg of you, he has brought you an extraordinary gift and…it would make me happy if I were to see you joyful again."

"What I want I will win by my own hand. I very much doubt that I shall find any happiness in Celebrimbor," Artanis replied, her anger abating, "but for your sake, Finrod, I will at least speak to him." And, having so said, she swept from the room, leaving an exhausted Finrod to collapse upon his throne. His sister was, as ever, very difficult and, of late, his thoughts were growing darker.

Artanis had intended to greet Celebrimbor rather angrily but, as she strode to the smithies, she found that her heart was turned by that strange fascination that sometimes comes over one when meeting someone you have not seen in a very long time and so, though she did not greet him with any particular joy, neither did she greet him with anger.

"Hello Celebrimbor," she said, and she wondered if something of the Sindar had rubbed off on her for he jumped upon hearing her words behind him, as though he had not heard her approach.

"Artanis!" He turned as though he meant to embrace her but drew back, sensing her unease. "Forgive me," he said with a broad smile, "it is just that I am so very pleased to see you. It has been a long while since last we met." He was a handsome elf, tall, with mahogany dark hair that hung long and straight behind him, a strip of fabric was about his forehead and tied behind his head, keeping his hair out of his eyes. His clothes were stylish, as ever, and meticulously clean, despite the fact that he worked in a smithy. He wore a white linen shirt that was open at the collar over which he wore a red velvet vest embroidered with gold stitching and fastened with golden clasps that were emblazoned with the seal of Finwe. His breeches were of a rich brown and his boots were fawn colored, with gold toes. He wore a thick oilskin apron that was tied about his waist and neck, the sign of a smith.

"And I am surprised to see you," she replied. One never needed to make much effort when in conversation with Celebrimbor, for he was of such a gregarious character that he could steer a conversation in any which direction with seemingly little effort. His remarkable tact and charm, she thought, stood in stark contrast to Celeborn's rough speech and straightforward, brash mannerisms. Celebrimbor, she was sure, would never dare to ask her any of the bold and uncomfortable questions that Celeborn frequently had.

"I thought you might be," he said, "and I apologize for that. I know that you must not be very pleased that I am here and I will keep my distance, if that is what you wish." Artanis could not help but be a bit shocked by such open acknowledgement of this fact from him, for the matter of his pursuit of her and her continued rejection of him had been a sore issue for over a century. Perhaps he had grown in character after all. "But I have heard from Finrod that you have been very unhappy of late and, well, it did pain me to hear that." Artanis silently cursed her brother for divulging this information. "Then I thought," he said, with great excitement, "that perhaps I could craft something for you, something that would heal your heart and bring you joy again, something spectacular."

He stepped away from his workbench and took to hand a small and elegantly carved cedar box. "It is my finest work," he told her, smiling proudly, coming to stand before her and holding it out. She stepped forward only because she wished to be polite and not to injure him with harsh rejection, but she could see nothing spectacular about this box. Yes, the carvings were very fine, and the smell of the cedar was lovely, but it was not spectacular.

"Are the engravings of the Gardens of Lorien?" She asked him with feigned curiosity.

"They are indeed," he said, grinning broadly, "for well do I recall how you used to dance there."

Only because you followed me and watched me when I was unaware, she thought. But it was a very generous gesture and she ought to show more gratitude, she reasoned with herself and so she said, "thank you, Celebrimbor, that is very kind of you."

"No!" He laughed, "you must open it."

"Oh," she said, feeling foolish, and, somewhat awkwardly she reached out to flip open the small silver clasp and lift the lid. What lay inside left her breathless: There, atop a cushion of silk the color of the midnight sky lay the most beautiful stone that she had ever seen aside from the Silmarils themselves. It was the size of a small chicken's egg and of the most marvelous green, as though all of the colors of the leaves of summer were encapsulated within its crystal, the deep green of maple leaves and the cheery bright green of the beech, the richness of the elm and the silvery green of the willow. And within this stone they would be ever verdant, ever living, not subject to the passing of time or the harsh seasons as the leaves on the trees. And, perhaps most magnificent of all, it shone with the sheen of the sun passing through a verdant canopy of leaves, casting a soft, dappled golden glow about it. It was set in a broach of flawless silver, formed in the shape of an eagle so lifelike that she would not have been surprised to see it take flight from the cushion upon which it sat. And this was threaded on a chain of silver.

"I would have made you a Silmaril if I were able," he said, "so that you could always look upon the light of the trees but, alas, this will have to suffice I fear. It is not so simple as it looks," he said, "for as I have told you, I wished to see you smile again and so this stone is imbued with special properties so that it will show things that are withered or burnt or destroyed as though healed and whole again, and whosoever wears this stone will bring healing from hurt for it is imbued with the light of living things."

"Celebrimbor," she gasped, very much overwhelmed by his generosity, "I do not know what to say! It is…it is phenomenal. There is nothing, save the Silmarils, that surpasses its beauty." It was true, and she was almost afraid to touch something this magnificent, yet she could hardly restrain herself, reaching out with a trembling hand.

"Artanis," he said, taking her hand, "I am only an elf and I have my faults, but my heart is true. Can we not begin anew? Will you not do me the honor of wearing this, the finest of my creations?"

"I will wear it," she said, "if it pleases you, but I cannot make you any promises at this time." For even as she looked upon the magnificent jewel a sharp pang of sadness had shot through her as she remembered the gift, the only gift that Celeborn had given her, the name Galadriel, a gift that she had shunned and despised until that moment when it was all that remained of their ruined love. And then she had whispered it over and over in the darkest hours of the night as though it were a litany and, by saying it a thousand upon a thousand times, she might possibly become that woman that he had seen fit to grace with such a name.

But Celebrimbor seemed not to notice her sudden sadness through the immensity of his joy and he took the stone from its chest and clasped the silver chain about her neck, the brooch itself falling to settle in the cleft between the swell of her breasts and she looked down, watching it hanging there.

"This is the Elessar," Celebrimbor whispered, his hand gently tilting her chin up so that she looked at him rather than the jewel, "may it bring you much joy." He smiled and then released her, returning to his work, and they only passed a few more moments in conversation before she took her leave of him, for he was eager to start his crafting, but Artanis spent many an hour wandering about the palace and she knew Celebrimbor's words to be true, for the magic of the jewel seemed to work upon her even as a drug or a heady perfume so that everything that had before reminded of her pain now brought her only the happiest thoughts and broken things now appeared new, not least of all her heart.


	15. Crucible of Madness

  
**Crucible of Madness**

In Cavern's Shade: 15th Chapter

*****

"But his soul was mad.  
Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and,  
by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad."

– Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

*****

**Author's note:** Please be aware that this chapter contains violence and rough language. Again, this story is rated "mature."

*****

"Not thinking of how you wish to run away are you?" The voice came from behind her and Artanis turned to see, to her great surprise, that it was Celebrimbor who stood behind her wearing not his customary oilskin apron nor any of the soot that typically stained his hands, but a brocade tunic of royal blue and black linen leggings.

"I don't believe I have ever seen you so casual," she remarked with a grin and a glance at his bare feet.

"Yes well," he laughed, hands clasped behind his back, "that never seemed to sit well with you so I am trying something new."

"Are you?" She laughed as he seated himself beside her on the knoll overlooking the forest below. It was autumn now and the trees were colored in an array of golds, oranges, and reds as if they were aflame. They were silent for a little while, watching the slowly setting sun with smiles on their faces, basking in its glow. And it was nice, she mused, to not feel so terribly alone for once.

"Look," Celebrimbor said, turning to her, "I am sorry about all of this, about everything that happened to you. I understand, Artanis, believe me. I too thought to come here only because I wished to see this earth, because I wanted to work with metals that no one had ever seen before, discover jewels heretofore unknown, new elements…and then it all seemed like some wretched, horrible, ruined dream when I saw the blood spilled upon the docks. I did not want this any more than you did, and I know the pain that you feel: that the deeds of another have marred your future. You know I did not raise my sword that day." A century earlier she might have stopped him from speaking any further but she listened now, for his words seemed a healing balm to her troubled soul.

"And I know that my father, and Celegorm, and Caranthir have done terrible things. It is as if their minds are twisted and warped – sick, evil. That day in Alqualonde…I lost my family that day, though it was not to death. But know this: that my kinship with them does not equate with compliance. I despise them. I have publicly spoken against them and I will continue to do so, to condemn the things they have done." It was true; he had, and what was more, he meant it with all his heart. It was always something she had respected about Celebrimbor. How strange, she thought, that he and Celeborn, who were truly so very different, were alike in that one very important regard. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, but Celebrimbor's solemnity caused her to refrain.

"But I am sorry, for all of it. If there was any way, anything further that I ought to have done, or could have done, but did not do, if any of this evil is of my doing in your eyes then I beg your forgiveness with all my heart. For it pains me beyond measure to know that your dreams, such as they were, have been dashed and you hopes smothered because of some evil that was the doing of my kinsmen. There is none who deserves to have the evil my uncles worked thrust upon them, but even less do you deserve it, who have always showed kindness, leniency, and understanding to all, even to me, who is so very undeserving. I would wish for you only happiness, even if I play no part in it." And by the tears gathering in his eyes and the heartfelt tone in his voice she knew he was sincere.

"Celebrimbor," she said, her heart moved, taking his hand and clasping it tightly, "I do not blame you and well do I know that you have condemned the actions of your father. More than that, I pity you in my heart, for Curufin has indeed gone mad and though he may still live in body, I mourn you the loss of your father. Therefore, do not think that I am angered that you have come here to Nargothrond or that I hold some grudge against you, for recently I find that the pain I have suffered has softened my heart and given me new understanding. What is more, I am glad that you have come here, for it seems to me that there is not one amongst the Noldor, or Sindar, or even amongst my own brothers, who so fully understands what has happened and its affect on me."

They were silent then and Celebrimbor interlaced his fingers with hers, the two of them watching as the setting sun glowed red as a hot coal, dying the surrounding forest and fields of golden grain in its light.

"What were you thinking when I came upon you?" He asked her softly.

"Only how beautiful it is, this earth," she replied with a sigh, wrapping her arms around her legs as she drew them up to her chest.

"It is, isn't it," he remarked with a smile, surveying the horizon and the burning of the setting sun against the rim of the world and then he turned towards her. "It looks well on you, the Elessar."

"I rather think so myself," she said, glancing down and laughing.

"Does it make you happy after all?" He asked her and she looked at him for a moment, her blue eyes meeting his dark ones, and nodded.

"It does," she replied softly. "Recently I begin to think that all is not lost, that I can still do something worthwhile in this world." They looked out towards the horizon again. "When you build your kingdom," Artanis said, "what will it be like?"

"Hmph," Celebrimbor grunted as he lay back in the tall grass with his arms crossed behind his head. "I will go east of the mountains," he told her and she laughed.

"Of course you will."

"There is a land there called Hollin and it is filled with holly plants of all varieties, with red berries, and black, and even some of gold, or so it has said. There are clear streams and a wealth of forests and many gentle knolls of verdant grass. And I will build a magnificent palace there."

"How magnificent?" She asked, as though she doubted him, but she was laughing, for this reminded her of how they had used to talk as children and things that once seemed no more possible than fairy tales now held the promise of actuality.

"It will be like a palace of Aman," he laughed, "here in Middle Earth, only grander." And he began to trace figures in the sky. She smiled, remembering how they did, after all, share the same dream. "With streets paved in diamond dust that glimmer in the light of both the moon and the sun and doors of crystal engraved with the most beautiful scenes," he continued. "The walls will be inlaid with gold and amber. In the courtyards there will be fountains inlaid with mother of pearl and the palace itself shall be an oasis for all, elves and dwarves. It will be," and he sat up, "the most magnificent palace you have ever seen. But," he reached out, tilting her chin so that she was looking at him, "it will all look as insignificant as dust next to the splendor that is you." Ah, she recalled, he has never been any less than bold.

Artanis felt her breath catch in her throat and, the next thing she knew, Celebrimbor had brought his lips to hers, kissing her softly at first, then deeply, and, to her great surprise, she let him. It was not that same feeling as when Celeborn had kissed her, that yearning hunger gnawing at the pit of her stomach, that power within her begging to be unleashed. Instead, it was a calm and gentle feeling, as though this moment itself were enough, as though she were content as she was now, and would forever be.

And her heart was greatly troubled thereafter, when she lay abed that night, trying to find some measure of rest. But her mind was racing. She had never thought that there was a possibility of happiness with Celebrimbor but now she could see that there was; there was the possibility of quiet happiness, of calm, of peace and well-being. She held the Elessar up, watching as it cast its summery light about the darkness of her chambers, green, like leaves, like Celeborn's eyes, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

*****

The gates of the fortress of Himlad creaked open but, even before they had entered, a strange foreboding about the place washed over Celeborn. Perhaps it was just that this particular region had always been somewhat desolate, or perhaps it was the imposing and somewhat severe architecture of the castle, for it did not blend into nature as Menegroth did, rather, it seemed to stand in spite of it, as though it had conquered the earth and beaten it into submission, but whatever the reason, it was with no small amount of trepidation that Celeborn first set foot in the looming entrance hall.

He looked down at the polished marble floor to see his own face eerily staring back at him, but diminished, like a ghost, or a reflection upon a pond. It was a very black place that even his Sindarin eyesight struggled to penetrate and some sparse light shone in the form of plain oil soaked torches that lined the long row of iron columns, their flames flickering weakly. It was less a palace for comfort than a fortress for war. But then again, the Feanorians were at war he supposed, so perhaps it was not so unusual that their palaces would be so different from Sindarin ones.

"State your business," the guard demanded but they said nothing and showed no signs of acknowledgement for he had spoken not in Sindarin, but in Quenya and the guard, assuming that they did not understand, then repeated himself in Sindarin.

"Prince Celeborn of Doriath and the Crown Princess Luthien of the same. We have come to speak with Lord Curufin if he would be gracious enough to grant us an audience, for our King has business with him." Celeborn replied, a bit put off by the terseness of the guards, though he did his best to not allow it to show.

"Wait here," the guard said before stalking off and while he was gone a different set of guards approached them, searching their clothes and divesting them of any weapons that they were carrying. A very strange policy among elves, Celeborn thought, that was unless Curufin expected elf to attack elf. It would have been exceedingly peculiar indeed, had they not known of the kinslaying, but, in light of that information, they now understood his paranoia. Celeborn turned to glance at Luthien and saw confusion upon her face. It seemed he was not the only one who was uncomfortable. This was no way to greet royalty.

"By the Valar you Sindar travel heavily armed!" The guard laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood, having sensed their discomfort. His Sindarin was poor, probably as he never spoke it, but Celeborn was grateful for his effort at levity, even as he began to wonder whether or not Thingol's decree was so wise. For if the Noldor could hardly speak Sindarin then it was almost certain that they would ignore the King's decree and, rather than enforcing Thingol's sovereignty, it would almost certainly sow seeds of discord. People would not learn an entirely new language for a king they did not know and for whom they bore no love.

"Yes well, old habits die hard I suppose." Celeborn replied with an awkward, tight smile. It was then that the first guard returned.

"The Lord Curufin will grant you an audience," he said with a bow, "though he begs that you if you will visit in the future, you have the courtesy to send messengers ahead of you. Our Lord is occupied at the moment but if you do not mind waiting a short while then he will be happy to see you shortly."

"That would be agreeable," Luthien replied. "But only the Prince and I need speak with him. Is there some place where our guards might wait to pass the time?"

"Of course my Lady, they are welcome to sit with our own guards if it pleases them and the horses shall be stabled for your convenience."

"My thanks," the princess replied and the guard beckoned them to follow him. They soon passed from the entryway into some sort of main chamber that was larger still but it was the same sort of architecture, dark and foreboding, iron and obsidian. Though the ceilings were high there was some sort of claustrophobic feel about the place that set them ill at ease, almost as if they were being squeezed as in a fist. At last they came to some sort of a small antechamber and this too had polished black marble floors but there were no more iron pillars here. Instead, the walls were lined with wooden chairs that were built into the wall itself. Very tall and narrow they were, with canopy-like overhangs and thin black cushions. It was all very dismal looking, so very severe.

"If you would be so kind as to wait here Lord Curufin will be with you shortly," the guard said, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Luthien said, perplexed, "will you leave us no light?" For, indeed, the only light in the entire room was the torch that the guard carried.

"I am sorry," he said, looking very much as though he truly meant it, but the greater part of his heart seemed given over to fear and, quickly, he bowed his way out the door. "I have been instructed not to light any lamps in this room." And then he was gone, leaving them in pitch darkness.

"No light?" Luthien exclaimed. "And what if they were to simply leave us here? I could never find my way back through all of those horrid tunnels in this darkness! Is this their idea of some sort of perverted joke? What did Artanis say about this one, Curufin? I cannot recall." Celeborn could hear her searching about for the chairs. He searched as well, slowly moving towards the wall, and at last they found them, though they were perhaps no better off for it, seeing how terribly uncomfortable they were.

"I do not like this. I do not like this at all Celeborn. These guards are so very frightened, though whether it is of us or of something else I do not know. There is something very wrong here," she said. "I feel as though my entire body were inundated with some great evil." Yet Luthien's voice did not quake with fear, for she knew fear not at all, nor ever had, and instead her voice was lit with anger.

Celeborn, however, felt near sick with fear and he said; "there is indeed. I find that this place sickens me." In his heart he was worried for his guards, for he knew not now what would happened to them while he and Luthien were gone. Many of them had served under him for a very long time and he would be loathe to betray his brothers in arms to harm. "For our safety and theirs we should not have entered without the guards," he said, growing frustrated with himself. "It was very foolish."

"You cannot think…" Luthien began, leaving her sentence unfinished. "But I am the High-princess of Beleriand and you the prince, surely not…"

But they were not sure what to think, and that was entirely the problem, Celeborn thought, his heart pounding in his chest. They knew these elves had slain their kin, but they were yet unaccustomed to the mindset of such elves. "I feel very stupid now for having left them," he said, his heart pounding in his chest. A queer sort of anxiety began to overtake his heart and he began to both bless and curse himself for having begged Thingol to send him from Menegroth, for he was certainly no longer devoid of all emotion, indeed, he was full of it at this moment, but the emotions racing through him now were of the very worst sort.

Minutes turned to hours and the hours seemed interminable. Celeborn reached out to take his cousin's hand in the darkness, more for his comfort than hers. "I curse myself now for allowing them to take my weapons," he said.

"Do not be afraid," Luthien replied in a firm voice, "for there is Maian blood running through my veins and you, you do not need a weapon to tear an orc limb from limb. Curufin son of Feanor will rue the day that he showed such disrespect to the Sindar!" And both of them would have left immediately if they had not been concerned that their disobedience might endanger the lives of their guards. "Celeborn," she turned to her cousin in the dark, "you must not strike him unless our very lives are in peril, for it would be an act of open war for a Sindarin prince to strike a Noldorin one."

"I know," Celeborn said grimly and he did not rebuke Luthien for having thought he would act rashly; indeed, the idea had already crossed his mind that he should very much like to strike Curufin.

They could not be sure of the time that passed while they were in that room but it seemed very long indeed. Sometimes they sat and, when they grew tired of sitting in the rock hard chairs, they stood and paced about in the darkness. Celeborn could feel the anger boiling within him for he was certain that this was indeed a deliberate act of rudeness and he only wondered what further unpleasant things lay in store for them.

"A short time he said!" Luthien scoffed, "this has been anything but!" She was right, but Celeborn allowed her to go on talking by herself for he did not trust himself to speak any further now, lest he explode with rage.

"Let us go! We will leave on our own!" He said finally, springing to his feet, unable to bear the tension any longer. "This was a fool's errand!" But, at that moment the door finally creaked open again and a guard entered.

"The Lord Curufin will see you now," he said stiffly before leading them into what must be Curufin's throne room. Celeborn immediately felt a searing, white-hot pain lance through his eyes and raised a hand to cover them, startled for a moment before he realize that the temporary blindness was an effect of the transition from a pitch black room to one blazing with light. It was much the same way he had felt on that first day that the sun had risen and, in his heart, he wondered if Finrod, his former friend, the only one in which he had confided his fear of the rising sun, had betrayed him to the son of Feanor. Slowly, he lowered his arm and opened his eyes to squint at the room around him, blinking rapidly as his eyes struggled to focus. It seemed as though everything were moving slowly, as if underwater.

"Mae Govannen Celeborn Galadhonian, Luthien Thingoliel!" Curufin said. He was a tall elf with a remarkably handsome angular face in which were set glittering brown eyes. His hair was chestnut brown, long and braided, the braids ornamented with golden clasps, and his robes were of red velvet, exquisitely embroidered with the emblem of his father's house. Celeborn felt a flare of anger surge through him for, though Curufin had greeted him in Sindarin, the accent had been terribly wrong and forced. This was obviously not because Curufin could not say it correctly, but because he was mocking them, making a parody of their mother-tongue and, in turn, of them.

"Come! Come out into the light! Don't worry, you won't melt!" The Noldo laughed, throwing himself onto his throne. "You can stand there," he gestured to the area before the throne and they moved there obediently, still too disoriented by the light to protest. They were vaguely aware of courtiers standing about the walls of the room, almost as though they wished they could disappear into the stone.

"You know," Curufin turned to the guard who stood on his right, "there are these little blind fishes that live in caves. Hideous creatures." He chuckled and then his head snapped back to his guests. Celeborn felt the pit of his stomach sink even lower, if that were possible, for though he had only observed the Feanorian's behavior for a few brief moments, already he was certain that he was in the den of a madman.

"What is it? Whatever is the matter?" Asked Curufin with mock concern as he sat up straight and turned towards them. "I was only trying to welcome you in a way fit to your culture. Do you not love the darkness, you Moriquendi? Twilight elves." He laughed. "Are you not pleased that I have seen to your needs?" And, as much as Celeborn wanted to spit at him and rebuke him for calling them Moriquendi, Curufin was speaking now in Quenya and he could not acknowledge it.

"What is the matter with them?" Curufin asked his guard after a pregnant pause. "Are they deaf or merely stupid? Can they not speak a proper language? This girl in particular is the daughter of a Maia is she not? How can she be so uneducated?"

The guard merely shook his head and said, "I do not believe they speak Quenya my Lord. For they seemed only to understand Sindarin earlier."

"What is the matter with you?" Curufin asked now in Sindarin and Celeborn raised his head.

"Us? There is nothing the matter with us! It is you who have left us sitting in a dark chamber for half the day! Have you no courtesy?" He said, eyes flashing, and almost immediately regretted having spoken his mind, for it was almost certainly what Curufin had wanted to provoke him to do. He had wanted to say something more diplomatic but Curufin had tried his anger most sorely.

"Ah! The Moriquendi temper!" Curufin clapped his hands gleefully. "I was told about you Celeborn. I was told of your sharp tongue. Ha! And they call you the wise. I did not know it was in jest."

"You have been most ungracious," Luthien said with a hint of politeness, though her tone was unusually somber. "And we have come here as emissaries of Thingol to discuss important business." She struggled to maintain her decorum when, in reality, all that she wanted to do was lash out as Celeborn had done, but Luthien was of a cooler mind and that was a blessing now.

"My oh my! How flattering that I should be graced with royal guests of the house of Thingol!" Curufin sneered. "Indeed, it is for the first time. Your king seems content with his Finarfinian lapdogs but not ONCE had he given a son of Feanor, eldest son of Finwe, the courtesy, no the decency, the respect of a royal visit!" The words hung uncomfortably in the air and Celeborn recalled how Artanis had once told him of the terrible jealously of the Feanorians when Angrod and Aegnor had first returned from Menegroth, bearing Thingol's messages, how they had spoken harsh words to her brothers, envious that the children of Finwe's third son had been granted an audience while they, children of Feanor, had been denied that courtesy.

"Well you are not the only ones with important business. I have important business as well! There are many questions that I am wanting an answer to. Let us all discuss our important business together then!" He settled back on his throne, a smile twisting itself across his face, and said; "now, I have heard that all Moriquendi males are hung like horses. Is this true?" Luthien was at a loss for words, staring blankly at Curufin, hardly daring to believe that he had asked her such a thing, to voice such impropriety out loud, and in front of others no less. It was hardly something one would consider saying in private, much less in a royal court.

"I…I…would not know." She replied at last, unable to think of anything else to say. The thought that he would dare say something of that nature…it was unthinkable. She glanced at Celeborn to see the shock upon his face and suddenly had a very foul premonition of where this conversation was directed. Curufin had not welcomed them as guests at all, instead, it seemed that they were there purely for his perverse entertainment.

"A lovely thing like you doesn't know?" Curufin asked, stepping forward as if to touch her face before drawing back suddenly. Luthien stared at him defiantly. "I find that hard to believe. I heard that your kind do not hold with the laws of Illuvatar nor with the customs of the eldar and, instead, breed at random, like dogs, without bonds of marriage. I have even heard that your sort inbreed. Little backwards forest elves. Is that true? Have you fucked your cousin Celeborn here?"

"Lord Curufin!" Luthien began, anger getting the best of her now at last, overcoming her shock. "I would remind you to whom you are speaking!"

"Or perhaps it is the Maian part of you that causes you to wait, hold out for more noble blood. If only Celegorm were here…he would like to show a pretty girl like you a thing or two." He grinned sadistically. The Noldo was predictable only in his malice but his temperament itself was mercurial. At one second he seemed jovial and confident, at the next unreasonably angry.

"But then, even the best families have their bad apples. Tell me," he said, turning swiftly to Celeborn, "You were the one who courted my cousin Artanis, or so I have heard. How was she when you fucked her? I have always wondered. I bet she likes just about anything you could dream of, the filthiest things you could dream of. She is SUCH a…filthy…whore." And, to his great surprise, Celeborn felt a wellspring of anger rising in him at Curufin's words. Thingol might condemn Artanis, and Oropher, and even himself, but their intentions were not ill; he would be damned to Mandos and back before he would allow someone so unworthy, so foul, so cruel-hearted speak about her in such a fashion. And what was more, Artanis could never have been called a paragon of virtue, certainly, for she had made many poor choices, yet he found himself enraged that of all of the things that Curufin could have accused her of, he had managed to reduce her to her mere sexuality. Luthien's hand reached out to touch Celeborn's arm, willing him to keep control of himself. She could feel him trembling.

"You have no right to speak against her, you who have slain your own kin. She may have slain kin as well, but she has not allowed the evil of her actions to warp her heart!" Celeborn hissed, against his better judgment.

"Ah, so you do still have feelings for her…" Curufin sounded gleeful. "Do you love her, Celeborn? Do you love a slayer of kin, a liar?" He laughed. "You have been trying so very hard, haven't you, to pretend that it was nothing, that she is nothing…and you almost convinced yourself that it was so, didn't you? Yes…it hurts doesn't it, Celeborn? Well…I know that pain too. I am, after all, a son of Feanor and I could not stop loving my father, even after what he did to me, what he made me swear to. I know that anger…I know your anger. You cannot hide it, not from me."

Celeborn felt Luthien's nails digging into his arm as though he were one of her disobedient hounds that she was seeking to discipline, but his anger was burning hot within and it completely overruled his better judgment. "Shut your mouth, Noldo," he spat, "how dare you speak to my cousin in such a fashion? How dare you speak about your own kinswoman in such a way?" But Curufin paid him no mind.

"You do know that she has parted her legs for half of Valinor do you not? Or…did you think you were her first? You, a Moriquendi!" He laughed. "How far she must have fallen, to have landed on your cock. I guess you are the sort of man who is content with the used garbage that is tossed his way. At least you could have been of some use. A bruised eye or two would have fixed that smart mouth of hers."

Celeborn wanted nothing more than to plunge a sword through Curufin at that very moment and if he had one he very well might have tried. At the least, he wanted to berate him for his words, yet the Feanorian had spoken to him in Quenya just now, doubtlessly to try to provoke a response, to prove that he did understand Quenya after all, and it was only his love for Thingol, who had trusted him and entrusted him with this mission, that staid his tongue in that moment.

"Do you not know that, even now, my son is in Nargothrond courting her?" Curufin spat. "She is not worthy of him, filth like her, as if her being half Teleri wasn't bad enough she was defiled by you, tainted." He glanced at them with suspicion.

"I know that both of you understand me and I do not appreciate whatever game it is that you are playing at," Curufin said then in Sindarin.

"Lord Curufin, I regret to inform you that we have had some very disturbing news from the Lady Artanis that pertains to you." Celeborn said, struggling to keep his voice calm even as his hands were clenched in fists behind his back. It took all of the strength he could muster not to choke the life out of the Noldo right there.

"Do you think I do not already know? Do you think I have not had word from Nargothrond?" Curufin shouted, his anger sudden, and fear began to creep into the back of Celeborn's mind. Curufin had killed before, massacred the Teleri, what was there now to prevent him from sending Luthien and himself on an unplanned journey to Mandos's halls? He was clearly not sane.

"We have heard of the massacre that you and your brothers as well as Fingolfin's men perpetrated upon the Teleri at Alqualonde." Celeborn continued and Curufin began to laugh maniacally as the Sinda spoke.

"Massacre!" Curufin brought this hand slamming down upon the arm of his throne as if he had just heard the most amusing joke. "It was like slaughtering babes in their beds! They were so much weaker than the Noldor! Third born…nelyar!They never guessed what we had planned, never understood what was happening, even as they died upon our blades! Fools lust for death and so it was death I gave them!" He laughed raucously. "Am I not a benevolent god? Massacre you say! That was a work of art! You should have seen it…you should have seen what I did."

He approached until his face was a mere hair's breadth from Celeborn's, his voice sinking to a whisper. "Everything was silver and red, everywhere silver hair and red blood. You would not have believed how beautiful it was…" The blade of a knife flashed and a gasp rose up from those assembled there. Curufin was holding a long lock of silver hair in his hand, freshly shorn from Celeborn's head. It was a sign of massive disrespect, to cut hair from another elf's head, a punishment reserved for the worst of prisoners.

Curufin stepped away laughing, flipping the knife up into the air and catching it. "Forgive me…I simply couldn't resist." He said with a wide grin, holding up the lock of hair. "It brings back such pleasant memories." With the knife he cut his own thumb, applying pressure until the blood ran down the lock of hair like beads, staining it red. It seemed to bring him an almost orgasmic pleasure. For a moment Celeborn considered fleeing, but he knew they would not make it far. Curufin returned to his throne, slouching lazily in it, and toyed with the lock of hair.

"I think I'll keep this," he said, "to remind me of you, and to remind you of what I shall do with you if I ever meet you again. Perhaps it will provide me some amusement."

"I am so BORED!" He shouted suddenly. "All of you bore me!" The courtiers along the walls shrunk back, frightened of him.

"What can stir my heart now? What can excite me?" Curufin sighed as though this were some great tragedy. "My masterpiece has already been finished."

"Come now my little darkies," he said, kicking at the floor, "tell me something else to entertain me."

"In response to your actions, my father has banned the use of Quenya in his realm and commands that none of his subjects will listen to it or speak it." Luthien said, holding her head high. "He commands that you respect his wishes."

"He…commands…me?" Curufin pointed to himself with a look of pure incredulity. "Your backwards, cave-dwelling, fool of a king presumes to command me?" His voice was quiet now, friendly almost, and this made Celeborn all the more frightened of him.

Curufin smiled, a twisted smile and clapped his hands. "Your attention please! Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please! Let us have a demonstration, shall we? This…princess…of the grey elves presumes to give his commands in my halls to my people. Well, let us all see which of us holds the power here!" And with that he turned, surveying those who stood in his court.

"Paniel, come here." Curufin said in Quenya and all eyes shifted towards a young Sindarin elf with flaxen hair, practically an elfling, wearing the uniform of a maid. She could have been no more than 25 years old. The blond maid cast her head down, pretending not to hear Curufin's words. Celeborn felt himself overwhelmed by nausea and now he wished most ardently that he had held his tongue earlier than that this girl should suffer because of the anger that he had incited.

"Paniel," Curufin repeated yet the girl showed no signs of acknowledging him. "She is one of your people is she not?" The Noldo looked at Celeborn and Luthien. "Let us have a demonstration then, let us demonstrate what will happen to all of those who obey Thingol's decrees over mine.

"Stop!" Luthin said, stepping forward, but Curufin pointed his sword at her. He strode over and grabbed the terrified elf maid by the arm, dragging her before his throne.

"You will kneel Paniel," he commanded, but the girl did nothing. With a face as calm as the empty sea, Curufin raised his sword and brought the heavy pommel crashing down upon the girl's head. She let out a shriek of pain and collapsed to the floor under the weight of the blow, weeping. Blood flowed freely from her head. "Stand up!" Curufin shouted but she did not rise. He kicked hard, the steel toe of his boot slamming into her jaw and this time she choked instead of shrieking, blood pouring from her mouth as she struggled to crawl away.

"You will stop," Celeborn said, striding forward and grabbing Curufin's arm. His brow was furrowed and his eyes furious, his face barely an inch from Curufin's. The Noldo moved to strike him but Celeborn held his arm fast; he was stronger than the Feanorian. "You will stop now and we will go." He said. "We will take this girl with us."

"I could kill you right now Sinda," Curufin whispered, his eyes like a snake's.

"Then I will be eagerly waiting for you in Mandos's halls." Celeborn ground out from between gritted teeth, hoping beyond hope that Curufin would not do something as suicidal as to kill the prince of Doriath in his own throne room and thereby bring certain war upon himself.

"Do you think that you are so superior to me?" Curufin whispered so that only Celeborn could hear. "Do you think yourself pure because you have not spilled elven blood? I was like you once, righteous, just. But that line is not so thin as you would like to think and…once you have crossed it…oh, once you have crossed it there is no going back and not because you cannot, no, it is because you do not want to. Do not lie to me, Celeborn. Do not lie to yourself. You want to kill me and you would if given the chance. You too would slay elves."

And the Noldo's words shook Celeborn's heart to its core, for it seemed as though the elf lord had read, in the matter of the moment, all of his thoughts of the past few years, as if he knew the atrocities that Celeborn had committed in his mind, as if he knew that unforgiveable thing that he had done. "We are leaving now." He managed to gasp the words out somehow.

And though his words had no power in them, it seemed that Luthien crackled with it as she stepped forward to stand between her cousin and the mad king, her body clothed in blue flame, her eyes gone completely white, her dark hair writhing like a mass of snakes. "You will be silent and you will raise a hand in anger to no one," the princess hissed and the voice with which she spoke was unfamiliar, deeper than a man's and otherworldly, as if it came from some void beyond time or space.

Like a spoiled child, the Noldo seemed to back down at those words, smiling and laughing as he swaggered away, though he seemed quite shaken, and his people flattened themselves against the walls, trembling in fear. "Fine, get out." He said. Celeborn turned away but kept one eye on the dark haired Noldo as Luthien scrambled to pick up Paniel from the floor. But, as they rushed towards the exit, the door opened of its own accord to admit another of Feanor's sons.

"Celegorm!" He heard Curufin call. "How glad I am that you have returned!"

"Keep moving," he whispered to Luthien and they did, out the door past Celegorm and into the maze of hallways. And yet as they went Celegorm's eyes remained fixed upon Luthien, lit with a sudden dark fervor. But the two Sinda paid him no heed in their rush to escape and, behind them, Celeborn could hear Curufin speaking to Celegorm and he heard the two of them laugh. Paniel could hardly stand and so Celeborn took her arm from Luthien's shoulder and picked her up, carrying her like a babe.

"Which way is it?" He asked frantically.

"Wait!" Luthien paused and then whistled a simple tune, a nightingale's song. She listened intently then to something, he knew not what, and then pointed to their right. "It is this way!" They moved, pausing every now and then for Luthien to repeat her whistle and indicate which direction to move in, until at last they were back in the entryway, practically running down the aisle of iron columns. Celeborn had feared that they would not be allowed to leave yet, as they approached the doors swung open and they stumbled out into a veritable blizzard to find that their guards and horses were exactly where they had left them.

"My Lord! My Lady!" The guards stumbled forward on stiff legs, concern clearly written across their faces. "We feared for your lives!"

"Did they not shelter you?" Celeborn asked, irate, for he could see how cold all of them were and ice was crusted in the manes of the horses. His guards unanimously shook their heads no. "Come, let us ride, and swiftly." He said, taking his weapons back from his soldiers. They rode hard for an hour and then stopped so that Luthien might check on Paniel's condition. The girl was still unconscious but she was breathing. One of the female guards who was skilled in healing helped Luthien get the girl down from the horse and, while they saw to Paniel, Glindir, the leader of Celeborn's guards led his horse over to the prince so that he might speak with him.

"Your highness, might I ask what occurred in that place? You were gone nearly eight hours! I was on the verge of sending scouts back to Thingol to raise an army." The warden's quick grey eyes were concerned.

"That is a house of horrors," was all that Celeborn managed to say. "But let us not speak of this here. Once we return to Menegroth I shall tell you the tale in full, for it is the sort of tale that one only wishes to tell once. Only now we must concentrate on returning to Thingol as soon as we can. Glindir, you have my most sincere thanks for your service," he said, placing his hand on the warden's shoulder. "I am sorry if I have put you in any danger."

"Of course my Lord. It is always an honor to serve you and to serve Doriath," Glindir replied, but grave concern still haunted his eyes.

"For the sake of the Valar!" Luthien exclaimed as she opened Paniel's mouth. "Her jaw is broken but I believe it can be repaired." The others moved over to watch her more closely as she reached gently into the girl's mouth and pulled out a handful of broken teeth. "One, two, three, four…She has five missing…She must have swallowed the fifth…or else it was lost upon the floor." She moved her hands to the girl's scalp, parting the hair there so that she might better see the wound. "This is not as bad as it could have been," she said. "She will suffer from a severe concussion no doubt, but there will be no lasting damage so long as infection does not set in." She held her hands over the wound and whispered words of healing. "We must get her back to Menegroth as soon as possible and we must inform my father of all that has passed." Her unflinching grey eyes met Celeborn's green ones.

The soldiers loaded the injured girl onto a horse but Celeborn stayed, squatting on the ground for a moment and Luthien bent to touch his arm. "What is it?" She whispered quietly.

"It was as if he knew all of my thoughts," Celeborn said in a strangled whisper, "as though he could read my very heart and mind like an open book. He knew what I have done. He knew my feelings better than I did. Somehow he knew."

"That is impossible," Luthien said firmly. "He knew that you loved Artanis once. It would not be so difficult for anyone to surmise that slandering her would anger you. Whatever else he said to you I do not know, but his words were evil, like poison. Do not let them cloud your heart, cousin. He would seek to make all like him."

"Am I not like him?" Celeborn whispered, the fear that had been plaguing him since they had left, for he had recalled his thoughts in the years after Artanis had left, the strange perversions that had crossed his mind, the boredom that had nearly driven him mad.

"You could not be more different!" Luthien said, her eyes flashing, and she offered him a hand up.

It was a good three to four days ride from Himlad to Menegroth but they did it in half the time and Celeborn was nearly sure that his horse would die of exhaustion beneath him yet, by some miracle, the animal persevered and they reached the gates of Menegroth by nightfall of the second day. Melian must have anticipated their arrival for as soon as the gates opened Mablung came running out looking a good deal more concerned than Celeborn had ever seen him look. Never was he more grateful to see the great bull-like march warden.

"Celeborn, tell me, what is the matter?" He asked. "Melian saw…"

"My party must speak to Thingol as soon as possible and have the healers summoned immediately. We have met with an extraordinarily bad situation." Celeborn managed to get out. He was still breathing hard and his heart was hammering in his chest from the exertion.

"My friend, I am glad that you are alive and well," Mablung embraced him. "I do not trust those Feanorians, not in the slightest. I half expected that we should next meet in Mandos's dark halls."

"You were very nearly right. It was Luthien who had the presence of mind to help us escape unscathed," Celeborn replied as the party stepped in from the cold at last. In this particular moment, there was no finer place to them than home. They had barely entered the city when Thingol came rushing towards them, running at full speed, a most unusual sight.

"Luthien, Celeborn!" His face was a wreck of worry as he embraced them tightly, first Luthien and then Celeborn. "My children, forgive me. If I had known how dangerous the situation was I would have sent an entire army with you. I never imagined that the Feanorians would be so bold as to threaten the lives of the prince and princess of Doriath! Please, I beg your forgiveness." He was truly distraught, nearly on the verge of tears.

"Father," Luthien embraced Thingol again and Celeborn saw that tears had risen in the King's eyes though they did not fall. Melian came running then, her golden slippers striking a sharp staccato beat upon the ground. She did not need to say anything at all, for they could plainly read in her face that she had seen all of it.

"Oh my daughter," her voice was trembling and Celeborn wondered that a Maia's voice could be made to tremble. He would never have believed it. "Celeborn, nephew," Melian said, embracing him, a great strength in her thin arms as she held him tight. He almost worried that she would crush him on accident with her anxiety. Just then the healers arrived to take Paniel, placing her gently on a stretcher and receiving instructions from Luthien before they bustled off.

"What was that?" Thingol asked with a skeptical eye.

"The terrible works of Curufin Feanorian," Luthien replied, her eyes flashing. "But we shall speak of everything in order."

"Are the Feanorians truly as…Artanis…said?" The king asked. It was the first time that he had spoken of her in many years and her name did not fall from his mouth as comfortably as it once had. Celeborn shook his head grimly.

"They were worse, far worse. There are no words she could have said that would have adequately painted them as they truly are." His jaw clenched angrily at the memory.

"Come, come, let us adjourn to my council chamber and we will speak of everything." Thingol said. He turned to the march wardens, "Glindor, come and bring your wardens as well. We shall need to hear what everyone has to say. And Mablung, you must come, for I want you to hear the tale and relay it to Beleg when he returns from our borders. Galathil," he turned to the wide-eyed herald, "send for my council. See that they are all assembled."

"You know that everything he said about Artanis was a lie," Luthien whispered to Celeborn as they walked, her eyes flashing as she grasped his arm firmly. "Not a word of it was true. He hates her because she defies him and he seeks to ruin her because of it."

"Why should I care what he says about her?" Celeborn said stiffly. "Why should I care anything about her?" Nevertheless, he reached out to rub the hand that his cousin had placed upon his arm.

"It is over now," She whispered.

"Luthien? Celeborn?" Thingol had turned back to look at them. "Come here and walk with me if you would. I find that I am loath to let you go too far from me at the moment. You must forgive my paranoia."

Once they reached the council chamber they all were seated and together Luthien and Celeborn told the entire tale down to the last detail, after which Glindor told of how the guards had been locked out in the cold and not allowed entry or hospitality. The telling took a very long time indeed for there were many instances where Thingol grew so agitated that he was no longer able to listen. At these times they would all fall silent while the king paced about the room or spoke to his wife in hushed tones. Celeborn did not think that he had ever seen Thingol so irate. Even when Artanis had told him of the kinslaying it had not been this bad.

"You swear that all of this is the truth and nothing but the truth, down to the very word?" Thingol asked, turning away from the wall and tenting his fingers on the table. His face was red and there was a vein throbbing in his temple. Celeborn could hear him breathing hard through his nostrils and he knew that the king was incensed. Luthien nodded.

"He spoke in this manner to the prince of Doriath, the most powerful kingdom in all of Endor, and to the princess of Doriath, my own blood and heir?" It was a rhetorical question so none gave answer but Thingol sat down heavily, his anger quiet, controlled, dangerous.

"This is very dark news indeed, the darkest I have yet heard. Artanis told us of dark things but I find that I had not fully grasped the depth of them until now. Nor was I able to fully comprehend that of which she spoke. I find that I have a new understanding now that I have heard of the true character of the Feanorians."

"He is truly mad," Celeborn said. "This oath that drives them will turn them all to insanity before the end."

"Then I have underestimated the danger that we are in." Thingol sighed a ponderous sigh. "We must be more vigilant, prepare ourselves, and we must gather information." His knuckles were still white from anger as he rapped them absentmindedly against the wooden table. "Mablung, Glindor, you shall consult with Beleg when he returns from the borders and with the other march wardens. You are to devise a plan. I want to have eyes and ears in the north so that I might know all that passes amongst the Feanorians."

"Celeborn," he turned towards the prince, "You will not join the other march wardens. I need you now as a diplomat rather than a soldier. The time is not yet ripe to renew an alliance with the children of Finarfin, but in time I shall need to gather information from them regarding the Feanorians and it may be that we shall need them as allies. For they have a particular insight that we do not and it seems that, perhaps, I overestimated the part that Artanis played in this even as I underestimated the evil her cousins are capable of. I hope that I can depend upon you for that?"

"Of course uncle," Celeborn replied.

"I will send messengers to our other cities within the girdle and I shall send you as an emissary to seek out the green elves and to the few Avari tribes scattered throughout Beleriand. For though I do not expect them to join us in battle should a war arise, they still ought to be aware of the circumstances and the danger that they are in. Furthermore, I wish you to remind them that if they are so inclined, I should be happy to welcome them within the safety of Doriath's girdle. You will undertake this mission first, for I must think long and hard on what I wish you to say to Finrod and I will need more time to do so."

"Your wish is my command my king," Celeborn said, though he did not sound pleased about it.

"And what of me father?" Luthien asked. "I am able to journey to Nargothrond if you wish or work in any other way for the good of my kingdom."

"Luthien…" Thingol began, raising his hand, his face clouded with worry, "let us not speak of this now."

"But father!" Luthien exclaimed. "I am the princess of Doriath, ought I not work for the good of my people? I desire this more than anything father, to protect and safeguard my kingdom! It is my duty! You allowed me to go to Himlad…" But Thingol interrupted her, raising his hand once more in a gesture that bid her be silent.

"That is exactly the problem," he said, his voice growing steely as though scolding a child. "You could have been killed there and I was fool enough to send you. We shall talk of this no more now, not in front of everyone." Melian's gaze tightened, looking at her husband with displeasure and Luthien's eyes welled with tears and the markings of anger, so similar to her father.

"Fine, fine then," she blurted out before turning on her silver slippered heel and striding from the room, letting the door slam closed behind her.

"If you would excuse me," Thingol bowed his head to those gathered there, "I should like to be left alone at this moment to consider the many things I have heard this evening. You all have your assignments. I trust that you will carry them out to the best of your ability for Doriath's sake." They stood and moved to the door. "Except you, Celeborn."

"Uncle?" The prince returned to the table while the door closed behind the others as they exited. He was used to being held behind after the others departed. Thingol often sought his council in private.

"Sit," Thingol bade him, gesturing to a chair, and Celeborn sat gingerly for there was a tension in the room now emanating from Melian and he could tell that she was displeased with her husband.

"Forgive me, husband, nephew, I shall go see to my daughter," she said, her voice husky, before sweeping from the room. The air seemed to quiver in her wake, as though a hurricane had just moved through it and perhaps it had in a way, for the flames of the candles and lanterns flickered as if they would almost go out before growing strong once more. Thingol watched her go with a look that was simultaneously concerned yet firm.

"It appears that Melian and I do not always share the same views on child-rearing. Perhaps you shall find in the future that you face the same issue." The king said. Celeborn's jaw tightened.

"Unless you have some matter of importance then I see no point in your having held me here Uncle," Celeborn said tersely and Thingol sighed.

"Speak your mind," the King said, with a flourish of his mind. "I have asked you to stay because I know that look of yours, that look you get when there is something that you want to say very badly."

"Why can you not send Luthien to Nargothrond, or Beleg, Mablung, Oropher, anyone else?" Celeborn said. "And why must you send me to the Avari? Amdir has not forgotten what happened at Amon Ereb and I too, am loathe to recall the events of the Battle of Beleriand."

"I thought you might say that," Thingol replied. "What I allow Luthien to do and what I do not allow her to do is none of your concern. Beleg and Mablung are but soldiers and not representative of my diplomatic authority. Your cousin Oropher, as we both know, is hardly cut out for any mission requiring delicacy. You may both be in the habit of speaking before you think but at least the majority of what comes out of your mouth at such times is not idiocy."

"Then Galathil perhaps," Celeborn replied and Thingol's mouth turned to a thin line.

"A mere herald? No, I think not. You have made your own bed, Celeborn, do not act so surprised to find that you must now lay in it," the King said. "I have my reasons for sending you."

Celeborn drummed his fingers on the table. "I wish you would tell me what those are."

"And why, so that you may disagree, and argue with me, and still be sent regardless?" Thingol asked. Celeborn at least, it seemed, still had the sense to realize when he could not argue his way out of a losing battle and so he made no reply.

You are too young for the kinslaying to have as much of an impact upon you as it has upon me. You were born after the great migration and to you their names may signify nothing, like characters from a fairytale. Yet I personally knew those who were slain, my kin, the Teleri of Aqualonde. Finwe was my friend and Olwe, whose kingdom was destroyed by the kinslaying is my brother. My brother, your grandfather, Elmo, I must presume to be dead. Your father, Galadhon, who was like my own son has been lost. Olwe and I alone survive and now I find that my kingdom is encroached upon from all sides by Belegur and the Noldor alike. How long will it be until there are none of us who remain? I depend upon you Celeborn. Do not let me down. You may go," Thingol told him, and the prince rose with a stiff bow before leaving.

*****

"It is good, sister, to see you smile once more," Finrod said as they walked through the gardens arm in arm.

"Yes, I quite think so," Artanis replied with a laugh, reaching down to touch a hand to the green stone she wore and, even as her fingers touched it she felt a warm glow seep into her skin. "It seems to make even your Nargothrond less loathsome to me. It is a dull business indeed, being so somber."

"Nor does somberness suit you, Nerwen," Finrod said with a smile, anticipating the elbow in his ribs that followed shortly thereafter.

"No, she said," smiling back at her brother, "and neither, I think, does Celebrimbor, though I have found that I am not as averse to his company as before."

"It is not friendship he seeks," Finrod said with a chuckle and a quirk of his golden brow.

"Quite obviously," Artanis replied. "And, whether or not you may believe me, I will tell you that I have come to see him as something more than a friend as well."

"You have?" Finrod was clearly surprised. "Then…"

"You were right," she said, turning about to face her brother with a smile. "Though he may have his faults, he has a good heart and I can see it at last. He can offer me many things that I want and, indeed, many things I desire but did not anticipate: safety, security, peace. I have no doubt that I could be happy with him, that I would grow to love him." She shook her head. "But that is not my choice."

"Then what do you want that you prize more than safety, security, and peace?" Firnod asked her with a laugh.

"I want to be part of something I believe in," she said, "and I want freedom."

"And you do not believe in those things?" He asked her "You don't believe in security and the like?"

"I do," she said. "But I also believe in perseverance, infighting for what you love, I believe in doing good not only for oneself, but for one's people, and in standing your ground for what you believe to be just. And those things I love the greater, though they may not afford me much peace or safety. What is more, if I would have security, or anything for that matter, I would rather win it by my own hand than have it given to me by Celebrimbor or by anyone else."

Finrod reached out and took his sister's hand. "You sound very much like a Sinda at the moment," he said.

"I would imagine so," she replied and Finrod sighed.

"Artanis, I will support you in your decision it…I…it is just that I hope you are not making this choice with the expectation that you and Celeborn can reconcile. Celeborn, well, it is just that the love for you is gone from his heart and you, nor anyone else can force it to return. Even he himself could not do so. You do not even know if you will ever be allowed to return to Menegroth and, if you do… Celeborn is so very stubborn and so extraordinarily obstinate that I worry that you will dash yourself to pieces against him ere he changes his mind."

"Well of course he is stubborn and obstinate, brother. He is a Sinda is he not?"

"He is the high prince of all Sindar and it seems his stubbornness is proportionate," Finrod laughed long and hard. "Very well then, but I would not expect Celebrimbor to be anything less than very angry with you."

"I do not see why he should not be happy with the stars, even if he cannot have the moon," she said.

"Would you be happy with anything less than you desired?" Finrod asked her.

"No I would not," Artanis said, having taken his point, "and no I am not."

Finrod laughed at that, shaking his head, but his sister stopped, holding the Elessar up to the warm rays of the sun that filtered through the trees.

"Then I expect that you should prepare to return your little present to him along with your answer," Finrod said with a laugh, but Artanis shot him a teasing glare of spite.

"And why is that?" She asked. "It was not a conditional gift. My retaining it is not dependent upon whether or not I return the love he bears me. He gave it to me only so that I would be happy again."

"You may very well think that," Finrod told her with a chuckle, "and perhaps Celebrimbor has even made himself believe that, but this world is a cruel mistress and she exacts a price in return for every treasure she surrenders, so do most men grow agitated when they do not receive what they see as due recompense for the gifts they given, even if they themselves are not conscious of their own expectations."

"And cynicism does not become you, brother," Artanis said with a laugh, bending to examine a bush of pink roses. "Celeborn asked everything of me and yet he never forced me to do a single thing against my own will."

And Finrod was glad to see that his sister could say the Prince's name now with a laugh rather than a tear. "I said 'most' men Artanis, not all of them. You must not always be comparing everyone to Celeborn, for he is not without faults of his own and he is what one might call a strange bird but, more than that, those who truly love you will not put such expectations upon you." Artanis stood, her gaze flickering to her brother's.

"So you do not believe that Celebrimbor truly loves me?" She asked.

"I do not know," Finrod said. "Perhaps he does but, as you said yourself, his jealous streak persists, which is one of the reasons that I believe he will demand you give that trinket back."

"Fie!" She said, "you mustn't call it a trinket brother, it is far to grand for that!" She laughed. "Ah, but I should certainly hate to give it up."

"You don't need gems to make you happy," Finrod laughed. "Wouldn't you rather have the freedom to earn happiness yourself as well, rather than having it handed to you?" He parroted her earlier words.

"But I do love gems so very much," she said.

"Believe me when I say that I am well aware of that," he told her.

"So then," she said, glancing up at him once more with a grin, "if you don't intend to force me to marry Celebrimbor that must mean that you truly love me brother."

"I never intended to force you to marry Celebrimbor!" Finrod cried. "I merely think you should expand your options!" But Artanis only laughed at his momentary unrest.

"Very well," she said, "then I shall believe you. But I must be going I fear, for it is near high noon already and Celebrimbor does grow ever so upset if I am but a moment late."

"You ought to tell him, Artanis!" Finrod called after her. "Do not dally!"

"Perhaps!" She called with a wave of her hand, "but I rather think I would like to have but a little more time with my trinket!" And Finrod sighed in exasperation, though he had to admit that it was good to see her in such high spirits.

"I was beginning to wonder where you had got to," Celebrimbor said as she entered the smithy and, though he said it with a smile, Artanis knew him well enough to detect the undercurrent of irritation in his voice. Though his heart was kinder and his demeanor more modest, he was not so unlike his grandfather as he liked to think.

"I was with Finrod," she said by way of explanation as she seated herself in her usual spot on the stool beside her workbench, placing her elbows there on the table and propping her chin up on her hands.

"Timeliness is a virtue," Celebrimbor said and Artanis laughed, thinking it a joke, for it would have been a joke if Celeborn had said it, but the dark-haired elf did not laugh, merely raising his eyes for a fraction of a second to glance at her before he returned to his goblet.

"Surely you cannot begrudge me the time I have spent with my brother," she said, lighthearted, and yet she was not so sure that Celebrimbor was in agreement.

"Of course not," he replied, as though this were a silly thing for her to have said, but she found that she did not believe him, for it felt as though he still read her tardiness as a slight she had intentionally made against him.

"It is very fine," she said, "that goblet you are making." As she had expected, her praise of his work caused him to brighten visibly.

"Thank you," he replied, excitement now evident in his voice, "it is, perhaps, the finest one I have yet made."

"And does it have any particular powers?" She asked him curiously. Celebrimbor laughed.

"No," he said, "I am afraid it is merely a normal goblet."

"Hardly normal," she laughed, "a fantastic goblet." Something about his work did fascinate her, the intricacy of it, his attention to detail, the ingenuity with which he combined materials she would never have thought to use. Watching him work was equivalent to watching art being made. "Is it a gift for anyone?"

"Not in particular," he told her, "it is merely for my own edification that I craft this. But perhaps I will give it to Finrod or Orodreth or someone if they take a liking to it." He set the cup aside for a moment and smiled at her. "Speaking of gifts," he said, nodding towards the Elessar, "I am glad to see that my gift has had its intended effect. It is good to hear you laugh again, Artanis."

"Yes, well, It is not surprising to me, for you seem to be the master of all that you turn your hand to," she said, having meant it as a compliment, but from the stormy look that flashed upon his face but momentarily, she wondered if some of Celeborn's temperament had rubbed off on her, for it had clearly been the wrong thing to say.

"There is one thing that has not turned to my hand," he said simply before returning his attention to the goblet he was crafting while Artanis toyed with the Elessar.

For perhaps he had realized, even as she had, that the very stone he had crafted had betrayed him. Finrod was wise, and what he had said was true, for Artanis knew that Celebrimbor had crafted the Elessar for her out of kindness but she also knew Celebrimbor's character, and thus she was aware that he must have secretly hoped that the Elessar, in repairing her heart, would also turn her to his will: that she might, through its healing power, remember Aman, their homeland, as a joyous place, and that she would look upon him and see renewed promise; in this, he had doubtlessly hoped that she would find it in her heart to love him at last.

Yet in the years since he had given it to her, and in the years since he had kissed her, she had lain awake each night, turning the Elessar between her fingers, its green light glowing even in the dark of her chambers. And, at those times, in the sacred silence of her heart and under the cover of the secret veil of the night, it was not Celebrimbor that she thought of, but Celeborn, for nothing so resembled the green of his eyes as the Elessar's sheen of sunlight upon summer leaves. And it was not Aman that she saw renewed, but Doriath, where she had been so very happy.

Celebrimbor must have wondered whether this stone might heal the rift between the two of them. But she, on the other hand, wondered to herself if the Elessar might even have the power to heal the damage that she had wrought, to soothe and soften Thingol's heart, to bring peace of mind and peace of heart to the kingdom of Menegroth, to heal the hurt that she had seen last in her lover's eyes. The Elessar had engendered in her the hope that all was not lost and it was that which was the reason for her laughter, the cause for her smile. And it was the Elessar itself that had turned her heart from him, for how could she give it to him fully, as he deserved, while it yet remained full of another?

After decades of restless sleep she had finally, with the Elessar upon her breast, found comfort in slumber, for when she wore it, she could see in her visions that Celeborn was still here, at her side, his heart unbroken, their love made new from the ashes of deceit; that he would gather her into his arms, and she would tell him how very sorry she was, how much she regretted all that she had done, and he would kiss her brow and call her once more Galadriel. A whisper in the night, the name echoed about her chamber before it was swallowed by the silence.

*****

"We were extraordinarily pleased, your royal highness, to hear that you had returned from Himlad unscathed," Saeros offered as the councilors seated themselves around the long table.

"I should certainly hope so," Celeborn said with a tight-lipped smile as he flipped his ledger open. Though Thingol preferred to use a scribe, it was one of Celeborn's habits to take note of the proceedings himself. He found it focused and settled his mind. His footman handed him a pot of ink and he dipped the quill in, blotting the tip on a scrap of paper as he drummed the fingers of his other hand impatiently on the lacquered tabletop.

"Though you did not return unchanged, or so it seems," Saeros continued, his voice oily, wheedling, and Celeborn looked up in exasperation at the Minister of the Interior. How very, very typical of him, he though.

"If you have something you wish to say then have out with it now," he commanded the councilor, his voice polite, though he felt as though he wished to be anything but.

"Oh, nothing, nothing your royal highness," Saeros said, feigning an air of innocence and concern that was ill suited to him, like a wolf wearing a sheep's skin. He does not even possess the grace of subtlety, Celeborn thought. The other councilors shifted uncomfortably in their chairs but remained silent as they dared not interrupt either the senior-most minister or the prince. "It is only that, well, after the…tragic events involving your beloved there were many who wondered if you would still be up to the task of governing. The heart does addle the mind after all, or so it has been said by greater minds than I. For a while, at least…you seemed so very…oh what's the word…tired."

Celeborn carefully set his quill down and folded his hands before him, trying with all of his mental fortitude to resist the tempting prospect of lobbing the jar of ink at Saeros. He briefly considered reminding the minister of his own melancholy after his wife's indiscretion with Mablung but decided that it would not do, for Saeros would not forget such a slight and, ever after, he would be searching for a way to break even with Celeborn over it, or worse, Mablung would receive yet another dose of Saeros's anger.

The prince found the strength at last, though only just barely, to control his temper and said, "I thank you for your heartfelt concern, minister. I have found that the trip to Himlad was precisely what I needed to reinvigorate my spirits. There is much to be said for the benefits of facing an adversary head on and, having at last seen for myself the madness that plagues the sons of Feanor, my mind is bent more fully than ever upon protecting Doriath from involvement in the quarrels of the Noldorin princes."

"I am glad to hear that, your highness," Saeros smiled. "There were those of us who were beginning to wonder."

"We all have our moments don't we?" Celeborn said with a smile, "perfection is, after all, the province of the Valar is it not?" He glanced around the table, and each of the ministers dropped his or her head in turn. And indeed, there had been at least one moment, in many cases more than one, where each of them had made some egregious error for which they had begged the King's forgiveness. Lust, greed, sloth, envy…his eyes settled on Mablung, Venessiel, Fingaeron, Saeros, and continued down the table until they all appeared duly chastised, or at least duly silenced.

"Well then," Celeborn said cheerfully. "Enough dallying about with pleasantries." The King has asked us to look into this matter of logging near Himring. We have had reports from Nellas, the chieftain of the Mithrim in that region regarding confrontations that our people in that area have had with Maedhros's people."

"They are fickle fools!" He cried later, with only the King for company. Thingol gave a ponderous sigh and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and propping his feet up on his desk in a most unkingly manner. "One minute Saeros is berating me over Artanis and making insinuations about my ties to the Noldor and in the next moment he leads a decisive vote against taking action against Maedhros for the protection of our people!"

Thingol merely laughed and Celeborn turned, one eyebrow raised severely, pointing a finger at his uncle and said, "this is no laughing matter Uncle!"

"I merely enjoy seeing you so animated," Thingol grinned. "It is reminiscent of how you were in the years just after the rising of the sun: so young, chomping at the bit." Celeborn glowered.

"You are the second person who has remarked upon my vigor today," Celeborn said with a scowl.

Thingol ignored his comment and said, "it is not often nowadays that the cards do not fall as you choose. You have grown unaccustomed to failure, Celeborn."

"It is not that I am unaccustomed to it, it is that I am unaccustomed to so much of it! Nothing, in recent years has gone the way that I have planned." Celeborn seethed.

"And it does irk you so." Thingol chuckled. "You know how they are, Celeborn, fighting, and bickering, and looking out oh so carefully for themselves."

"Then disband the entire cabinet!" Celeborn fumed. "Let us bring in entirely new ministers."

"Disband the whole cabinet?" Thingol asked with a raised eyebrow. "Where oh where has your wisdom led you now my son? Why fear the Noldor, or indeed Melkor himself, with twelve angry lions in your own bed? They have all been in those positions for hundreds of years – "

"And all the better reasons to rid ourselves of them," Celeborn retorted. "They are ensconced in power, in corruption. What better reason to clean house?"

"And what would you do, if you replaced them?" Thingol asked. "They would have nothing to fill their time but to wander about Menegroth and, fueled by anger, raise up opposition against you. And how would you control them then? You would no longer have their positions and the promise of royal favor to hold over them. No. You want them exactly where they are now. While they still hold their positions they have reason to fear you, for you can take from them their livelihood, if you so choose. And is it not better, after all, to keep your enemies close by, where you may be intimately aware of their plots and thereby counter them?"

"What a lovely picture you paint, Uncle," Celeborn said with a scowl, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against a bookshelf so that he could face his uncle. "Prisoners in our own palace who must bribe, and connive, and cheat, and lie, and subterfuge to get even the simplest thing done."

But Thingol seemed not to find the whole mess as upsetting as Celeborn did and the King merely laughed again and said. "They are also, all very adept at their jobs. There is a reason that I have assigned them to the positions that they hold and a reason that I have allowed them to remain in those positions year after year, century after century. True, they have their vices, but I would wager that their merits are the greater. And you, Celeborn, have been dealing with them long enough that this should not be news to you." Celeborn ground his teeth and looked very put off. Thingol laughed again. "I would hope that you would have realized that your…erm…"

"Call it what it was Uncle."

"Your ill-fated relationship with Artanis would have some impact on your political standing." Thingol finished.

"They were displeased the entire time I was with her and, while I had her, I found that I did not care. I had thought that they might be pleased now that she is gone, that my favor with them would grow. But, instead I find that they seem only all the more eager to do me what damage they can." Celeborn fumed.

"You must learn not to have any expectations with them, Celeborn," Thingol mused. "Or at least you ought to set your expectations very low. Then it will be a pleasant surprise indeed if things turn out better than you expect. You young elves are always thinking you can change the world in one fell swoop! Ha! Drudgery and toil, Celeborn. Drudgery and toil!" He laughed boisterously but Celeborn only glowered. If there had been any humor in what the king had said then it was clearly past him.

"Will you do nothing to help me remedy this situation?" Celeborn asked and Thingol shook his head.

"No, I think you have it quite in hand," he replied, taking his boots from his desk and leaning forward with clasped hands. "I trust you. I have raised you as a King after all." Celeborn rolled his eyes. "What do you do when you fall from your horse?" The King asked.

"Get back on it," Celeborn replied monotonously, as though this were an answer he had memorize long ago and recited a thousand times by rote.

"Very good," Thingol said. "Then you had best saddle up. Win them," the King said. "Win their votes. A soldier who falls and rises is worth twice the respect of one who has never fallen, for a man who has never fallen from his horse has never faced a worthy adversary. And your Artanis – "

"Do not call her my Artanis," Celeborn spat. "Do not associate me with her or with her deeds."

"Well I may not have liked her very much," Thingol said with a laugh, "but I often found I could not help but respect her. She has more mettle in her than there is in every member of that cabinet combined. A worthy adversary indeed." He smiled. "If you can survive a woman like that, you can survive anything."


	16. Caged Birds

**Caged Birds**

In Cavern's Shade: 16th Chapter

*****

"Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist,  
I will still not have the power to forget you."

\- Ovid

*****

**Author's note:** Thank you to everyone who took the time to read! I really appreciate it!

*****

There was a reason that Thingol had given the task of alerting the green elves and the Avari to Celeborn. It was true that Beleg and Maglor were superior warriors, though not by very much, or so Celeborn liked to think to himself. But, there was none who knew the land better than Celeborn, not even Thingol himself, and even Melian, for all of her prescience and power, could not sense the earth as well as he.

Finding the green elves had been easy enough, for though they were adept at hiding from the Noldor and especially from Melkor's beasts, they had no reason or desire to hide from the Sindar. And, having fought together for hundreds of years, the Sindar were well accustomed to their ways and could track them easily.

They had journeyed to Arthorien, within the guarded forests of Doriath where the guest elves were and then onwards to Ossiriand, where some of Denethor's people still lived outside of the girdle. Whereas the elves of Arthorien had come out readily to greet them, the elves of Ossiriand had been harder to find, having become accustomed to hiding from Melkor's orcs. Yet, when they had seen that it was Celeborn and a host from Menegroth that approached they had readily revealed themselves, listening in full to the message.

After that, Celeborn's party had turned southward, seeking the Avari and this would be a difficult search for the Avari preferred to remain hidden and unknown, even from the Sindar, for whom they bore no love. They were a secretive people and did not congregate in large numbers as the green elves did. Rather, they were grouped into tribes, nomadic groups that travelled in small numbers of fifteen to twenty led by a chieftain. Other than that they had no centralized structure and their chieftains met only in times of dire emergency. The last time that Celeborn had seen any of them had been at the Battle of Beleriand and even then not many of them had come.

But the Sindar were not searching at random. There was a particular Avarin tribe that Celeborn was tracking, for if any could be called the king of the Avari it was this chieftain in particular. His name was Amdir and he was part Avari by birth, though his mother had been a Sinda of Doriath. He had lived as a Sinda once upon a time, a march warden of Doriath and Thingol's ambassador to the Avari until the battle of Beleriand.

How very distant that seemed, Celeborn thought, the times when they had fought in segregated units, but at the time it had seemed only natural. For the green elves naturally preferred to follow Denethor, their own king, and though there had been Avarin born soldiers in the ranks of Doriath's march wardens, they had refused to serve under Sindarin commanders and would follow either Amdir or no one. But it was not all because Green Elves and Avari did not want to fight under Sindarin commanders, part of their aversion, and it was no small part, was due to the distaste that Sindarin soldiers had for elves that, in their minds, had ignored the summons of the Valar.

"If they will not follow even the Valar, then they certainly will not follow us into battle! They will break rank and abandon us to be slaughtered by Melkor's creatures!" They had whispered not so quietly in the alehouses in the years before the battle. "Those who would deny the Valar know nothing of loyalty! How can we trust them as allies?" And Celeborn felt shame wash over him as he remembered how he had sat quietly and listened to such talk. He could easily excuse it by saying that he had been young and had not known any better, but the truth was that it had not been so very long ago and he had not been so young as to merit such ignorance.

And yet everyone, it seemed, had accepted it as a natural thing that the regiments should be segregated. Only Mablung had spoken out against it, saying that as Sindar, Avari, and Green Elves all die the same he saw no reason why they ought not die together. He had been largely ignored and yet, in the end, it was Mablung who had proven the most prescient of all. But it had not been the Green Elves or the Avari who had abandoned the Sindar. Indeed, it was they who had been abandoned.

The Sindar had set out from Menegroth, a great army riding beneath the brilliant blue and silver of Thingol's banners, their armor and mail shining in the light of the stars. A great Sindarin army they had been, riding behind their King, and Celeborn himself had ridden at Thingol's side, for he had been given command of the eastern flank of the army, a prestigious post for one so young, but he was a prince of Doriath. Mablung had been on the western flank with Thingol commanding the main part of the army and Beleg's archers sped through the trees overtop of the galloping horses below.

Celeborn's heart had been filled with joy and with such excitement as he had never known before, for this was his chance at last to prove himself worthy of the great position that his uncle had granted to him, and an opportunity to prove his manhood in war. It was patriotism that had made his heart beat and he had been proud, oh so proud, to know that he was a Sinda by birth, a prince of the blood of Doriath. And when they had first broken from the forest to the east, coming upon Melkor's army, the sound of arrows whistling through the air had been to him the sweetest of sounds.

The army had cheered, and shouted, and chanted their war songs, but their voices began to falter and die as Belegur's army approached, for they saw now what his army was and it was then that they began to understand the full extent of Melkor's malice. Marching towards them were orcs, yes, but they were not as the other orcs they had discovered, for those had been strange creatures, blackened, charred as if burnt, of a strange build and they had not known where Belegur had discovered such creatures.

But as the army advanced, as they drew closer, they began to understand that he had not discovered them at all…he had…created them. It was all a perversion, a mockery of them, of elves. For the creatures marching towards them now were not yet orcs, but they were no longer elves either, though they had been once. They had been twisted and broken, but their faces were still familiar, faces of those they had once known, those they had once loved: friends and family, husbands and wives.

Celeborn's heart had broken out into a furious beat and his confidence, his pride of but a few moments earlier was entirely crushed and defeated, fear and despair quickly filling the vacuum left behind. Even his hands were trembling now and he did not feel like a general, though he was one, in shining new armor atop a fine charger, but as a child, and he wanted nothing more than to flee back to Menegroth and hide himself behind Melian's skirts but he stood, transfixed, as all of them stood, unable to believe this horror marching towards them.

A great crying and wailing rose up from the ranks of the Sindar and Celeborn turned towards Thingol, breathless, but the King's visage was calm as the calmest sea and he turned towards Celeborn and Mablung, who himself looked uncharacteristically shaken. "Do you see that?" He asked quietly. "That is what war is. That is who Belegur is. Look upon it well and do not forget it all the days of your life."

And then the king turned away, drawing his sword and raising it high in the air. "Doriath with me!" He cried. "Make ready to attack."

Celeborn gripped his axe with still trembling hands, trying to settle himself and called out in what he hoped was a voice more secure than he felt, "eastern flank with me!" He could hear the creaking of the bows as Beleg's archers, hidden in the tree line, nocked their arrows.

"Loose!" Thingol called, and the hail of white tipped arrows flew forth. "For Beleriand!" And they had charged.

It had not been the first time that Celeborn had killed. Indeed, he had been a warden since he was in his twenties, and yet something about killing seemed more difficult to him now, almost as though his heart were rebelling against it. Belegur had done this on purpose to mock them. Yet still he pushed forward, swinging his battle axe from the back of his horse, cutting his foes down as he rode, and his army followed him to the east as they had been trained to do, until they had moved against the eastern side of Belegur's army while Thingol pushed from the front and Mablung from the west. Having boxed the orcs in they were able to cut them down easily, and yet it was slow going simply because of the sheer numbers of them.

For many long hours the battle raged and Celeborn was soaked with sweat and with blood, some of it his own, by the time that the messenger came riding up to him. "Your Royal Highness," the elf woman gasped, quite out of breath, "King Denethor is trapped on Amon Ereb and requests immediate assistance."

"What? How can that be?" Celeborn exclaimed incredulously. "He was to rendezvous with us here, not there! Why has he proceeded alone to Amon Ereb?"

"I do not know your highness," the messenger said. "But King Thingol has ordered all forces to advance upon Amon Ereb with all haste, lest the Green Elves be overrun and routed."

"Tell the King that I have received his command and will obey," Celeborn said tersely and the messenger turned, galloping back towards where Thingol must be. "Forward!" Celeborn commanded and they leapt into the fray, pushing hard, as hard as they were able, for the hill in the distance. What could have caused Denethor to advance before they had planned it?

It was hard fighting, pushing through Belegur's army now, and Celeborn was aware that his numbers were dwindling, though his army was so great that many remained. His horse was cut out from beneath him and he fell, the soldiers swarming around to protect him, but he rose, cutting his way forward once more.

Thingol had gotten there first and by the time that they had reached the hill, Belegur's forces had drawn back somewhat. The fighting trailed off and at last stopped, during which there was a lull in the battle of a few hours while both sides regrouped. It was not good, Celeborn knew. He could see Thingol's sullen face from the crest of the hill and yet even as he climbed it he grew conscious of the fact that the bodies he was climbing over were those of green elves, not orcs. It had been a massacre. And when he reached the top of the hill at last he saw Thingol there, kneeling upon the ground, and cradled in his lap was Denethor's head, his body having been shot through with a myriad of black arrows.

"We were too late," Thingol whispered. "And all for nothing. They were slaughtered even as we pressed forward, needlessly spending Sindarin lives for a rescue that had failed before it began." He sounded angry and yet there were unspent tears in his eyes.

"Their armor was too weak!" Celeborn cried, angry, looking down at the corpses that surrounded him. They were dressed only in their usual clothing with sparse leather armor, carrying thin hunting bows, not the massive, strong, war bows that the Sindar carried. "Why would he go into battle with an army so ill prepared?"

"It is their land too," Thingol said, laying Denethor upon the ground and rising. "They have the right to fight for it, die for it if they see fit."

"Then they should have come to us!" Celeborn fumed. "We could have outfitted them properly."

"Do you think so?" Thingol said, turning to his nephew with an appraising eye. "I think they would rather have died as Green Elves than put on Sindarin armor."

"Then they were fools!" Celeborn cried, dismayed at the terrible loss of life, but his uncle turned upon him with savagery.

"They died in the way they saw fit, as they would have wished to die! You should learn before you speak! You are too young to know these things. My trust in you was misplaced. I can see that now. Come, I will take counsel." The king stalked back down the hill. "Burn the bodies," he instructed a commander whom he passed. "And do it quickly. I will not have those who died with honor perverted by the orcs."

They descended the hill to the King's war tent, which had only just now been erected, and entered within. Thingol's rebuke still burned hot in Celeborn's chest and he felt awash with shame, with anger. Beleg was not there, for he and his archers were moving in the tree tops, picking off Belegur's commanders, but Mablung was there, breathing hard, his shining armor dulled by blood and dirt, and Saeros as well, looking as upset as one could have expected to find him, given that nearly all of his kinsmen had just been slain. A few other commanders milled about yet just as they were about to convene about Thingol's war table a messenger burst through the door.

"Your Royal Highness," he addressed the king, "Beleg's scouts are reporting that the Avarin army has been cut off to the North. They are taking heavy casualties. Perhaps that is what urged Denethor to go forward ahead of time. He may have been seeking to help or extract them."

Thingol bristled. "I have not the strength nor the forces to seek to rescue yet another rogue army!" He cried. "We already sustained such dire losses in seeking to aid Denethor, and it was all for naught; he had already been slain! How could I possibly consider another such foolish attempt?"

"We cannot abandon them!" Oropher cried.

"We can and we must," Mablung replied. "We suffered heavy casualties in this last bout. We cannot risk doing it again. We might be cut off and we would not be able to fight our way back into Doriath. How many more would die needlessly? We are beyond wrong and right here. This is a matter of numbers and our numbers are insufficient."

"Denethor died because these Avari went rogue!" Saeros cried, having lost complete control of himself. "My people are dead because of them, because of that Amdir! Let him die. Let them all die!"

"Will death remedy death?" Oropher replied.

"Saeros!" Thingol turned on the commander. "This is not a personal matter, do not make it one."

Celeborn said nothing, but the anger was burning hot in his chest, lancing through him like lightening until he thought that he very well might explode with it. He glanced up and his eyes met Oropher's. His cousin seemed to know what he was thinking. The silver haired prince turned and quit the tent, stalking away, ignoring the shouts that followed him, the commands for him to return.

"Give me a horse," he commanded and someone handed him a pair of reins.

"Are you going?" He heard Oropher's voice behind him and turned to his cousin. The golden haired Sinda had fire in his eyes.

"Yes," Celeborn said simply. "I've already disappointed him; I have already lost his trust. What is one more disappointment?"

"Then I'm coming with you," Oropher proclaimed. "When they speak of the elves of Doriath let them not say that we abandoned our comrades to death on the battlefield. You saw those…those creatures that Belegur fashioned, those orcs. How are we any different from them if we abandon our brothers to such a fate? We would be just as twisted, just as foul."

Oropher too found a horse and Celeborn marshaled his army, telling them what he intended to do and informing them that they need not follow him if they did not wish, and some did not, but the greater part of them stepped forward and, turning northwards, they had began the assault.

Celeborn stood with a sigh, leaving his memories of the Battle of Beleriand behind. The ground here yielded no clues as to where Amdir's tribe might be. The Avari were wily and secretive and they knew the outskirts of Beleriand better than the Sindar, better even than the small force of gifted trackers and fighters he had brought with him.

They had travelled in the trees and on the ground, searching for snapped twigs, leaves that had been disturbed. Whenever they came across a cave they had entered it, looking for signs of a fire, yet the Avari were careful and they found very few clues as to their whereabouts, which forced them to proceed more slowly than they would have liked. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months and still they had not found them.

They were often forced to stop for hours at a time so that Celeborn could listen to the voices of the trees or so that he could lay with his ear pressed to the ground, listening. It was the only way that they made any progress and it was the only way they could be sure they were tracking Amdir's tribe.

"We will make camp here," Celeborn directed his wardens and they began to make a fire, unrolling their bedrolls around it, grateful for the rest. Though the daylight made it easier to track the Avari, it was too dangerous to rest at night, when orcs roamed free, and so they had been searching at night and sleeping during the day. Celeborn watched as the wardens set a brace of rabbits over the fire to cook. He did not feel particularly hungry, though he had not eaten in a while.

He had been haunted by the nightmares, the dreams of the Battle of Beleriand, ever since he and Luthien had returned from Himlad. And, as of late, his thoughts disturbed him so much that his appetite had waned, along with his interest in everything else, and so he walked a little ways away from the campsite, climbing a tall beech where he sat in the upper branches, feeling the breeze in his hair, listening to the rustling of the leaves around him, and trying to find some measure of peace.

Yet he was unable to forget the look in Curufin's eyes. It haunted his dreams - that insanity, it took him back to a time when there had been no sun and no moon. He found himself in the midst of the Battle of Beleriand once more, pushing forward and forward, ever forward, slaying orcs as he went, with Oropher at his side. They had seemed almost elven to him before and he had found it difficult to kill them, but now that he had seen what they had done to the Green Elves, what they had done to Denethor, he found almost a perverse delight in feeling the blade of his axe sink into orcish flesh.

Thingol had taught him to look an enemy in the eyes when dealing him death, the last sign of respect, and Celeborn did, enjoying the fear he saw in them, laughing as he rode, beheading them, slicing through their skulls, exposing their brain matter, trampling them beneath the hooves of his horse. The blood sprayed upwards, coating him in red, his armor was slick with it. Red and silver. Curufin holding the lock of hair that he had cut from his head, the bead of red blood trailing down it. Red and silver. Galadriel awash with blood in Alqualonde, surrounded by the corpses of her silver-haired Telerin relatives. Red and silver.

They had almost been too late, but when Celeborn, in a blood rage, had reached that spot where the Avari were, there were some of them still alive and, most miraculously of all, there was Amdir, still standing, though not unhurt.

"Celeborn," he had murmured in grateful thanks as he looked upon the Sindarin prince, "we had thought we would perish…" there was fear in his eyes too and Celeborn realized how he must look, awash in blood. Red and silver.

"Of course they would send you." The voice was quiet, barely indistinguishable from the breeze yet Celeborn's eyes snapped open upon hearing it, but his thoughts of the Battle of Beleriand were not entirely forgotten, for that was the last time that he had ever heard that voice. Amdir. "Don't move. Your wardens do not know I am here." The Avari said. Celeborn could not see Amdir but he could see the two sentinels pacing several yards away, oblivious to the fact that the Avari chieftain was in their midst.

"I will speak to you but I will speak to you alone." The voice was coming from above but Celeborn did not raise his eyes, did not wish to provoke Amdir's ire. If the Avari wished to remain unseen then he would allow him that. "There is a stream about a mile north of here, follow it east until you come to a tall pine. I will meet you there at noon. Bring no one with you." Amdir was gone just as quickly as he had come and Celeborn sat there until noon. It felt strange to be awake during the day.

He looked up at the sun, shining bright overhead, and Finrod's words echoed in his mind for a moment. _You do know you're not supposed to look directly at it, don't you Celeborn?_ The thought of his one time friend nearly brought a smile to his face. It was so bright. He remembered the girl with hair woven of sunlight and, for the first time, it was not apathy or anger that filled his heart, but a hollow sadness. With each passing year the memory of her grew fainter. He had almost forgotten her face and yet he dreaded that the next place Thingol would send him would be Nargothrond. He was afraid of what he might find there, and he did not know why. He pushed the thoughts from his mind with some difficulty but it would not do any good for him to dwell on them, not when he could not even understand his own thoughts.

He dropped to the ground, informing his sentinels that he was going for a brief time and ordering them not to follow. They were worried and expressed their concerns but they obeyed him nonetheless. He made sure that it was so, stopping periodically to see if they were following; they weren't. As the sun blazed high in the sky, he drew closer to the designated place and Amdir dropped from the branches.

Time had changed him. Whatever part of him had been Sindarin seemed to have been completely forgotten. He wore his dark hair closely cropped with the sides shaved so that the only hair on his head was a strip running from his brow to the nape of his neck. His skin was darkly tanned by the sun and he wore no clothing save for a pair of deerskin breeches and short deerskin boots but his ears had been pierced many times over, all the way up to the tips, and polished bits of wood had been inserted in the holes. His bow and quiver were strung over his bare back and he stared at Celeborn with unflinching yellow eyes as the Sinda approached. Several of his followers stepped out from behind the pine and one of them made to bind Celeborn's eyes with a black cloth but Amdir held out a hand, stopping him.

"It would do no good to bind this one. He knows the forest well and does not need his eyes to see," the chieftain said in his tribe's tongue. As with most of the tribes it was a variation on a common Avarin language that Celeborn understood and it was not difficult for him to discern its meaning. "Come." Amdir and his people turned and began to walk through the forest and Celeborn followed. They all wore their hair in a similar style and their backs were thickly muscled, crossed by a network of scars, the price of living outside the girdle; it was a hard life.

They walked for some time, at last approaching what appeared to be a small settlement. There were five tent-like structures there composed of wooden poles over which tanned deer hides had been stretched. The people came out to stare at him, the males dressed in much the same manner as Amdir himself while the women wore short deerskin skirts elaborately embroidered with beads, their breasts uncovered. There were several elflings and these ran about completely naked.

"Let us speak in my tent," Amdir said, pushing aside the flap. They entered and Celeborn saw that there was a dark haired female there, her black hair hanging in a long braid down her back, and a young elfling, no more than three, who stared at him with wide, curious eyes. "My wife, Hwin, and my son, Amroth," Amdir said, placing his hand on the child's head. The boy approached Celeborn, standing toe to toe with the Sinda and staring up at him, arms reaching up. The Sindarin prince bent down and the child grabbed a lock of his silver hair, playing with it while speaking in the Avari tongue.

"The tale I have come to tell is not a happy one. Perhaps it would be best if your son did not hear it." Celeborn said but Amdir waved his hand dismissively.

"He may be young but he has already shed his first blood, a hare. We do not shield our children from unpleasant matters here. It is good for him to hear these things."

"Hwin," he turned to his wife but she merely glared at Celeborn before saying something to her husband in a deep guttural language and exiting the tent. "She is from another tribe, an older tribe. They have no love for your people or your king. Sit," Amdir said and they seated themselves upon the ground while the child played nearby.

"I will not pretend that I am happy to see you for I am not," Amdir spoke now in the tongue of his tribe. "Our only wish is that you Sindar would leave us alone yet you seem incapable of that."

"Then I will not bother with pleasantries," Celeborn said as Amdir packed a pipe full of pipeweed and lit it, taking a long pull from it. He blew the smoke out, watching it rise through the air.

"You have had dealings with the Noldor," Amdir said, passing the pipe to Celeborn, who took a long draw from it.

"With Finrod and Artanis, two of Finarfin's children. The rest have been forbidden entrance to Doriath."

"Why? Have you forgotten how we fought in segregated armies at the Battle of Beleriand, segregated at the command of your king? How are you Sindar any different than them?"

"Things are not that way anymore," Celeborn said. "And that was your legacy. There are many green elves among our ranks, who have chosen to make their homes in Menegroth, and by Thingol's order they mix freely with the Sindar in all matters." Amdir said nothing, but his eyes bore witness to his skepticism.

"Have you forgotten what I did for you?" Celeborn asked. "Thingol would not speak to me for years. My cousin Oropher almost died rescuing you. I almost died. I endangered the lives of my soldiers."

"And you won the battle," Amdir interjected. "Winning requires risk. That is what war is, a king risking the lives of his people, hoping that it pays off. You played your hand and you won. Why should you be upset about it? Thingol created you in his image."

"The Noldor slander me for it but it is only because I know what being a king costs that I do not wish to be one," Celeborn said. "The guilt of what I have done consumes me," His voice filled with anger, his eyes flashing. Amdir respected anger. He sat, observing the silver haired prince.

"I know what you sacrificed," Amdir said, "and I respect it." They were silent for a few moments before the Avari continued.

"You should come live amongst us Celeborn. You would do well as one of us. I saw your frustration all those years ago. They never listened to you either, always jostling for their own personal gain, so eager to step on anyone to get to the top, and I was the lowest of them all, the most expendable, simply because of my Avarin blood. Don't you ever get sick of it all? With wisdom like yours you could be a chieftain, yet you are always relegated when they can form a majority against you. Can you tell me now that things are better, that they still do not conspire against you? They care not for wisdom. Even Thingol allows his passions to rule over his head."

"I am more cunning than they and I have learned to manipulate them well. It is not often nowadays that the cards do not fall as I mean them to," Celeborn said. It was only a half truth. His worries about Saeros and the matter of the logging at Hithrim clouded his mind.

"In other words you have become one of them."

"I do not act on my own behalf but for the good of Doriath and her people."

"Their good, as you judge it."

"Have you not just said that you trust my judgment?"

"I suppose I did," Amdir smiled at last but it was not a true smile. "Yet word has reached me that you have taken one of these Noldo, this Artanis as you called her, into your bed."

"Things between she and I have been finished for many decades now," Celeborn replied dismissively.

"It will be better for you. If there is anything worse than your people it is most certainly the Noldor."

"You are a hypocrite Amdir. You want equality amongst Sindar and Green Elves and Avari yet you are all too willing to place divisions between our people and the Noldor," Celeborn said as Amdir passed the pipe back to him.

"You can call it what you like Celeborn, call it hypocrisy, but I gave up on ideals a long time ago and it would behoove you to do the same. Use them when they are useful and discard them when it will benefit you to do so. It is the only way to survive. Thingol taught me that lesson by example, when he left me to die on a battlefield, and I learned it well. Long did I wait, trusting in the King's word while my wardens were slaughtered around me and in the end he betrayed me. If I had had the courage to act on my own as I do now then I might have found another way out before so many of my soldiers sacrificed their lives for me. You can speak of honor but first I would ask you walk the field of Amon Ereb and ask those who fell in the battle what good honor did them." They sat in silence and Celeborn passed the pipe back to Amdir.

"I am sick of this, for I have spoken of it many times and I do not wish to speak of it anymore," Amdir said, sounding suddenly frustrated. "Let us speak of other things. Why have you come here? It had better not be because your lot is going to war again."

"No, we are not. I have brought you a warning, for we have received the worst sort of news and Thingol wished you to know and to spread the word to the others." Then he told Amdir the entire tale: of how the Noldor had first come to Menegroth, of all that had occurred while they were there, of how they had finally come to know of the Silmarils and, at last, how Artanis had told them of the kinslaying." When he had heard the entire tale Amdir sat in silence, his jaw clenched and darkness in his eyes. It was a long while before he spoke and the pipe lay at his side, forgotten, cold.

"Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish been caught will they realize they cannot eat jewels," Amdir said at last. "I never could have expected this. It is very dark news indeed, worse than anything I could have imagined. Something tells me this is the beginning of the end." His yellow eyes met Celeborn's, confirming that the same thought lurked at the back of the Sinda's mind.

"I cannot leave Menegroth but you could go, all of you, taking your people east over the mountains. They have kin there who would provide you refuge." Celeborn said but Amdir laughed at the prince's words.

"Take them east? This is their home and they would sooner die than leave these forests. I am their chief, not their king. It is they who make the decisions, not I. I am merely the guide. And will you stay in Menegroth even in the event that Doriath comes to stand between them and their oath?"

"I will remain where I belong, in Doriath," Celeborn replied simply.

"And so we have made the same choice," Amdir said.

*****

She already knew it was he, she had been summoned after all, but her heart seemed to quell with each step that she took across the cold and unforgiving marble towards the door, for as much as she wished, as much as she dreamed in all of her dreams that he would take her into his arms and kiss her and call her his Galadriel once more, she knew that she could not expect such a happy reception and, more than that, that she did not deserve one. And for all of the courage and confidence that she had spoken to Finrod with regarding Celeborn, faced with the prince himself now she found both courage and confidence to be swiftly fading.

She had thought to pause and recoup herself before the door for a few moments but no, it wouldn't do; he would have heard her coming and he would know that she dallied. Grasping the golden handle she pulled and her heart dropped to her feet the second she entered the room for there he was. There was Celeborn. And, as much as she had wished to see him again, had longed for that moment and feared it would never come, so had she dreaded it with her entire being, feared seeing derision and anger in eyes where she had once seen love, the pained expression of one whom she had wronged in the worst and most intimate way, or, worst of all, nothing. And so she could not bring herself to look at him directly but cast her eyes to the floor. This was to be no lovers meeting.

He stood from his seat at the table as was proper upon the entrance of a lady and she saw that he had indeed come on official business, not personal, for he was dressed in the garb of an emissary, fine clothes the like of which he had only worn on the most somber of occasions. Over his shoulders was a gray cape, the collar of which was lined with white wolf's fur and clasped with a green enamel brooch in the shape of a leaf. His star-bright hair cascaded over his shoulders like a stream of pure silver and upon his brow was the crown of the prince of Doriath. Its dangling accouterments jingled as he seated himself once more.

He had chosen his clothing carefully she knew, and the point had been made: she was a subject before a foreign prince, the lord of a sovereign nation, and she bowed carefully, eyes downcast, before seating herself opposite him. She dared not meet his gaze, both afraid of what she might find there and conscious of her own weakness, already moisture had gathered in her eyes and she tried to will it away, concentrating on the table that sat between them rather than his face, even as her heart leapt about like a rabbit in her chest. Her shoulders were shaking. She had meant to be brave, calm, collected, but she had not expected it to be this difficult and she found that all she wanted to do was shout at him in anger and pain.

The table at which they sat was not a very large table but it was stacked with parchment, and quills, and ink. He had come for information then. She traced the engraved vines on the edge of the table with a finger, needing something to occupy the long silence, but it seemed inappropriate and so she abandoned the self appointed task, clasping her hands in her lap instead, finding that they were trembling, clutching the lock of hair she held.

"Lady Artanis, I have come seeking information per the request of Thingol, King of Doriath, High King of Beleriand, and Lord of the Sindar." He spoke without looking up. It was a voice she had not heard in so very long and the sound of it rattled her soul. "I submit for your perusal the subpoena, sealed by the king himself, ordering your testimony as to the characters of the persons listed therein. Please remember that you swear your testimony to be the whole and entire truth to the best of your knowledge and that, if it is found that your testimony is false in part or in whole that you will be subject to punishment in accordance with the laws of Doriath," he pushed the document across the table at her and she looked at it, numb.

Their hands were separated by the span of a mere inch yet an inch could be miles depending upon the map used to read it and though she felt the warmth of him so very near to her, she knew that his heart was many leagues away, or at least he acted as though it were. But beneath his collected demeanor she sensed some inner turmoil and her heart began to burn with fury. Was this how it was to be? Where has his straightforwardness, where had his honesty gone? There were so many things that had been left unsaid between them but it seemed that he would rather feign he had never known her. They were both acting, and neither one of them was particularly adept at it.

"Have you read and understood this document?" He asked her. For all of his coldness it was as though they had never even met before yet she remembered every night that she had spent in his bed, in his embrace; she remembered the warmth of him, every line of him, the touch of his lips upon her skin.

"I have," she replied tersely, placing it back upon the table and returned her hands to her lap, clenching them there. He removed the cork from the inkpot and dipped a long quill in, blotting it before poising his hand. It would be more usual for a scribe to take dictation but he meant to do it himself. She remembered that he had told her he did that to concentrate when his heart was troubled and yet she suspected that his reasons now ran even deeper than that: that he wished for privacy. And she found she was very glad indeed that they were in private, for there were many things she wished to say to him and she was determined to speak her mind.

"Shall we begin?" He asked.

"If it is information that you desire then would it not profit you more, my lord, to speak to Finrod Felagund? He is the lord of Nargothrond, not I," she said, pointedly, but it provoked no reaction from him.

"I have already had words with Felagund," he said. "Thingol wishes to know what lies in their hearts. Looking into others' minds is your realm of expertise is it not?" He said, still not looking at her though she had at last gathered the courage to raise her eyes to him, incensed by his answer, and tears sprang to her eyes now, all regard for comportment gone. How dare he sit there and pretend that this was nothing, that he cared not at all?

"You once called that a gift! You swore to stand by my side in my troubles and now you will use them, use me as a weapon?" She asked him. He looked up then, his eyes lingering briefly upon the Elessar, and she wondered if he had not noticed it before and if that was because he had not looked at her since she had entered, just as she had avoided looking at him. He raised his eyes to meet hers then, and his were cold, though not devoid of emotion, an emotion she did not understand.

"You have been ordered to comply by Thingol himself for the protection of Doriath," he said, his voice dangerous. "If you do not wish to comply then I will be left with no choice but to put you under arrest."

"At least if you arrest me you shall have to take me back to Menegroth," she spat, "even if it is in shackles."

"Menegroth – where you are hated, despised, loathed, where your name is the foulest of curses!" He shouted and his words, the release of what he had been holding back, shocked her into silence. He seemed to recover from his brief outburst of anger then but she could tell that there was much he wished to say that remained unsaid, angry bitter words, and he could no longer pretend that he was not uneasy. "We were under the impression that you wished to work against the Feanorians," he said instead, but she could tell that his anger was seething just beneath the surface.

"I do," she replied, calming herself again though her own anger simmered at the back of her mind. There were many things that remained unsaid, things that ought to have been said long ago, but had now festered like open sores for the better part of a century. "I will comply." And she would, for now, but not forever.

"Very well," he wiped away a spot where the ink had dripped. "Let us begin. What do you know of Maedhros Feanorian?"

She told him the entire tale then, testifying to the character of each of her cousins, being careful to spare no detail. She spoke of the terrible oath of Feanor, of Maedhros's sense of duty as the firstborn that had driven him to be the first to swear to it. She spoke of Maglor, the kindest of her cousins who, though he regretted the kinslaying with all of his heart would still not turn from the oath he had sworn, and of Celegorm and Curufin who were never seen one without the other, telling of the strange illness that had invaded their minds, darkening them and causing them to dwell upon perverse thoughts that did not commonly enter the minds of the eldar. She told him of Caranthir as well, the quickest to anger and the last to forgive. Lastly she told him the sad tale of Amrod and of his twin Amras, killed by his own father. And though she hoped that the information she was providing would be useful to Thingol, the greater part of her heart was given over to sadness, for well did she remember her cousins in their youth, the promise that each of them had shown, the opportunities they might have had with their lives, but now it was as if those people she had once known were now strangers to her.

"Maedhros and Maglor are reasonable. But these three: Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir, they are the most dangerous of Feanor's sons," she cautioned him, "and you would do well to avoid them altogether. For their minds have been warped by evil and they kill because they have come to enjoy it, because it pleases them. If it is protection that you seek then you should watch these three with particular caution and you should instruct Thingol to do the same and to trust nothing you might hear from them." Her words trailed off into silence and Celeborn seemed to be pondering whether or not to speak.

"Celegorm, and especially Curufin, I have already seen with my own eyes," he said then, almost as though he were confiding in her, as though what he had seen of her cousins had shaken him to his core. "What you have told me coincides with what I observed myself." His words confirmed the rumors that she had heard and she felt her anger dissipate as quickly as mist.

"You should not have gone there," she said then, the words falling from her lips as though she were powerless to stop them, her heart trembling in fear, concern overwhelming her pride, "for they love nothing more than to kill." The image of silver Telerin scalps hanging from her cousins' belts was still fresh in her mind. "Indeed, I have already heard tell of your visit there and my heart was greatly troubled by it for I fear for you, and for Luthien also, for those three do not easily forget a slight, whether real or presumed, and I am certain that you have not seen the last of Curufin. At worst they will seek you out and at the least they will cause you trouble whenever the opportunity presents itself." Then, for the first time in the many hours that they had been speaking, did she see Celeborn show any sign of misgiving for he had not expected her to know that he had been there and it had shaken his collected façade if only a little. And she wondered at what Curufin must have done to disturb Celeborn so.

"Who told you this?" He asked her, his eyes flashing, sensing that something yet was unspoken. It was then that she unclenched her shaking fist to reveal a lock of silver hair stained with blood, his own, a part of what Curufin had taken those years ago.

"Curufin…" he said, his voice a whisper.

"Valar," she gasped, her voice sounding as though it was about to break. "You do not know how I feared for you, how foolish it was for you to go to Nargothrond!" But the sight of that lock of hair, the sight of red and silver, dredged up angry memories long suppressed and feelings that were confusing to Celeborn, perplexing beyond his ability to understand them.

"Who told you?" He asked again, angrier this time, the anger supplanting those old memories, providing him a means of escape from them.

"Celebrimbor, son of Curufin," she replied, casting her eyes down once more, for she did not wish to speak of him. "He is here and heard by letter from his father. But I had a letter from Curufin as well, and I knew the lock of hair it contained to be yours. I feared for your life. You do not know, Celeborn, how terrified I was for your life."

"You have continued to associate with the Feanorians," he said. "And here I thought that was one of Curufin's lies. If that is true then how much truth was in what else he said? Look at me!" He commanded, angrily and she complied, watching the flush of anger spread across his face.

"Celebrimbor came uninvited," she replied, meeting his gaze with firm eyes. "But he is not like the rest of them. Never did he raise his sword to slay his kin. Never have his words leant credence to the deeds of his father or his uncles. Indeed, he speaks out against them and condemns their wicked deeds." Celeborn was intensely interested now, his eyes boring into hers, seeking answers for what he suspected, for the questions that remained unspoken. The silence stretched between them as taut as a tripwire.

"Is it true that he came to court you?" Celeborn whispered at last, not a shy whisper, but the sort that came from a throat so dry that the speaker could hardly speak; the question that needed asking, the question that she did not wish to answer.

"It is. And what should it matter to you?" It was a cruel question to ask and his jaw tightened in response. She pressed her sweaty palms flat against the table, meeting his gaze with fire of her own, and she feared her own anger: that she would lash out and say how she had confided in him that she had a terrible secret, that knowing this he had still made pledges to her that he no longer kept, that he had betrayed her as well. And yet, she could hardly blame him for having broken them. She wanted so badly to remain cool, to remain calm, but she was quickly losing her control.

He stood, walking around the table and she gasped as she felt his hand against her chest, lifting the Elessar, turning it back and forth in the light. The touch startled her and she looked up, meeting his eyes. "Did he give you this?" He asked, his voice deep, thick with emotion.

"Yes," she replied, feeling as though her heart had skipped a beat. Celeborn's hand tightened around the stone, enclosing it within his fist, and she half wondered if he meant to tear it away.

"You have agreed to marry him…" Celeborn said.

"Do not put words in my mouth," she commanded with fire of her own. "I have done no such thing!"

"Then why do you wear his jewel?" Celeborn cried, and the anger was written clearly upon his face now. "This is a marriage custom among your people is it not?" He released the Elessar as if it had burned him. "Have you forgotten me so quickly, so easily?"

"And why should you care?" She cried again, meeting fire with fire and she flew up from her seat, slamming her hands upon the table. "You stopped loving me ere I said anything of the secret! You tried to bind yourself to me though you loved me not! I have not forgotten the tears you shed as you lay in my arms! Do you think that that did not tear my heart into shreds! And what of all of the promises you made me? What of your promises to help me, to always listen to my council, to love me? I told you that you would not love me if you knew who I truly was and you swore that was not true! You once wanted to marry me, Celeborn! Have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing of the promises I made you while I was yet deceived!" Celeborn shouted back, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "But I did not think you were a murderer, a traitor! And what of the promise of our future together? What of our dreams? I wanted to marry you! Did you think I was not serious? Did you think it was just a dalliance for me? Why did you ever agree to courtship if in secret you planned for my destruction? Was it because you never loved me? I thought you would be the mother of my children! I dreamed of building a home with you! And you ripped all of that away from me because of your own selfishness, because you cared more for your own security than for my dreams, our dreams! I was slandered in my own court for my associations with you but still I defended you, I believed in you, I loved you!"

"But you loved Doriath more!" She shrieked, angry tears bubbling in her eyes.

"How typical of you, Artanis! You can never be second in anyone's affections can you? Yet you will place everyone else second to your greatest love: yourself. Even now you string poor Celebrimbor along because you cannot bear for him, for anyone to look at you with distaste!" The tears nearly spilled from her eyes, for his words stung with the worst sting of all: truth. Trust Celeborn to be so brutally honest; Celebrimbor would never have dared to tell her the naked truth, though she suspected he had thought it before.

"I love Doriath more than you and I love this earth more than you and I always have and I always will! I am not one of you Calaquendi! Do not expect me to act like one! If you loved me, if you truly loved me, then you would know that and you would accept it, you would have accepted it a long time ago! I am a Moriquendi, Artanis, and that is what it means to love a Moriquendi! It means taking second place! It is a hard truth, I know, but I will not deceive you, even if you have deceived me!"

"Do not use that word!" She cried, incensed. "It is foul and I will not hear it!"

"Won't you?" He cried. "The rest of your people seem to have no problem with it. Indeed, Curufin insists upon using it. Is that not the company you keep nowadays? Go to Celebrimbor then, and tell him some twisted version of the truth as you always do to your suitors. I am sure that he will comfort you with the words of a man deceived, as I once did, but now I will speak the truth or I will not speak at all."

"You want to know why I wear his jewel?" She cried, brandishing the Elessar, her eyes full of tears. "Do you want to accuse me of having forgotten you so easily and quickly? You do not know your own power, Celeborn. I wear this because it reminds me of your eyes! Yes, he is good, and kind, and noble, and handsome and yes, very probably I could marry him and be happy, but not while you yet live. For beside my love for you, the affection I bear him is as hollow as chaff after a harvest, so easily lifted and dispersed by the breeze, gone as quickly as the seasons. But my love for you is as the eternal rocks beneath this earth, neither great, nor splendid, nor beautiful, but necessary, more necessary to me than the air I breathe. For with you I saw some glimpse of a greater world and I would move heaven and earth itself to see it for but a moment more."

Her words conjured the memory of the night when they had first kissed and she did not doubt that, at that moment, he recalled it too. There was a flash in his eyes, some darkness there that she had not seen before and suddenly he seemed to snap; screaming in rage he grabbed the clay inkpot and threw it with all of his might against the wall where it exploded, painting the stone with a fresh bloom of black ink that dripped and ran to the floor like blood from a wound.

His shoulders shook and he turned towards her, looking for all the world like a man haunted by anger and torment. "I do not know," he said, his words a strangled whisper, "if what I feel for you could be called love for it dwells so near to hatred, like twin brothers at their mother's breast," his voice lapsed into silence until all she could hear was the faint drumming of her frightened heart within her chest.

"Celeborn…" she whispered, half fearful as he turned towards her, fists and shoulders trembling, his eyes unreadable yet troubled, as though a hurricane churned in the depths of him. He strode towards her and she stepped back, feeling the edge of the table connect with her legs, and the next thing she knew he had gripped her arms, painfully tight, pressing her back hard against the table. He had never been gentle but he was even less so now and the fierce look in his eyes startled her at the same time as it appealed to her more basic nature as well, as ever it had. She understood his words now, for she too knew not whether she wanted to kill him or make love to him.

He grabbed her hips, pushing her up onto the table as she watched his eyes, both of them breathing hard, feeling his hands beneath her skirt, forcing it up, pulling her tight to him. He seemed to struggle, as though he wished to speak but could not bring himself to say the words and she could feel his hands trembling where they gripped her skin tightly while she wrapped her hands in his silver hair, pulling hard. The intensity of his eyes bore into her own as the minutes passed while words did not. Only the sound of their labored breathing filled the air and she wondered if he meant to take her then and there, knowing that she would not stop him, did not want to stop him.

"Valar," she breathed, "you are more myself than I am." His mouth came down on hers, hard, and she kissed him back with equal fervor as each of them pulled the other desperately against them, as if they could become so close that they would become one. It was as if fire coursed through her, as if she were alight with burning energy, fueled so fully that she could take on anyone: her brothers, her cousins, or Thingol, or Mandos, even Morgoth himself. That power, raw and aching, moved through her, filled her, made her tremble. When Celeborn kissed her she feared nothing. And for all the beauty of Celebrimbor's Elessar, for all its magic, it had not that power.

But he seemed to regain some control over himself, pulling away, trembling, agitated, still angry, and she could already feel the soreness in her hips where he had gripped them. There would be bruises in the morning to remember him by. "No…" he stammered, "no…I don't want this." He backed away, as if she were a snake that had just bitten him. And then, putting his emotions away he said, "my apologies." He turned away from her for a moment, "that was a most indecent thing to do. I hope I haven't pained you."

The silence persisted for a few minutes, both of them shaken, before either of them managed to muster words, and it was Celeborn who managed it first. "What is the price that you would ask of me Artanis?" He asked, turning back to her with those dark, accusing eyes. If judgment was an art then Celeborn had perfected it. Slowly, for her hips already hurt where he had gripped her, she slid off of the table, pulling her skirt back down, her heart still pounding within her chest.

"Freedom," she said coldly, though his heat remained imprinted upon her body, seared into her skin where his hands had grasped her shoulders, her thighs, "I have known so many cages: Aman, here, Menegroth. I would be caged no longer."

And Celeborn merely shook his head, the anger gone now and, instead, it seemed that her answer had made him very sad. "I cannot free you from yourself…or your choices," he said, his voice falling.

Turning his eyes from her, he picked up the papers that he had cast to the floor, rolling them up and binding them. She watched him intently, torn. She half wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg for forgiveness. That was all it would take; he had only just now been a mere breath away from confessing that he still loved her too. But she had defended the Teleri after all, and why should he cite her killing of the Feanorians as murder when they had been in the wrong, why should he continue to levy that blame upon her? But he had just rejected her yet again and she had not the courage to endure further rejection. Fear and hope warred in her mind.

And Celeborn glanced at her again, one last time, as if he were waiting, but momentarily he turned, strode to the door and paused with his hand upon the handle. Even now she could stop him, run after him, tell him again that she loved him with all her heart, with all her mind, that she would admit to having done wrong, that she would accept any punishment for his sake, that she was willing to fight for him, for Doriath, that second place was good enough for her.

"Goodbye Galadriel," he said. The door clicked shut behind him and he was gone.

"Goodbye Celeborn," she said into the silence.

*****

"Celebrimbor, I presume," the voice was as cool as water but deep as the ocean itself and Celebrimbor nearly jumped out of his own skin at the shock for he had presumed himself alone and knew not when someone else might have entered the smithy without his knowing, nor how long they had been there.

"And who are you?" He said, looking up from the gemstone he was working on, for he had not recognized the voice. What he saw was a shock indeed, something he had not seen the like of since Alqualonde and nay, not even there.

Sitting there on the stool upon which Artanis customarily sat was a very large elf, taller than Celebrimbor certainly, though he was, perhaps, no stronger than the smith. But it was not his height or his strength that most caught Celebrimbor's eye, it was that hair, pure silver long and straight, like a river of moonlight that spilled over the elf's shoulders both in front and in back. His face was extraordinarily handsome, his skin of a dusky hue, and his eyes, Celebrimbor noted with a sinking feeling as if he would grow sick, were the color of evergreens or of summer leaves, the color of the Elessar, but there was no light in them; this was surely a Sinda, and of the royal house no less, for who else had hair like that.

Yet by his exquisite manner of dress he might have been a Telerin prince of Aman, for his clothes were the finest that Celebrimbor had yet seen an elf of Middle Earth wear and he was attired all in the colors of ice. He wore a long robe of heavy silver silk patterned with herons in flight that were embroidered in white thread. The robe crossed over his chest, secured by a wide belt of watered silk with the color and rich hue of a sapphire which was, in turn, secured by a thin rope of silver that ran over it and was fastened in the center by a silver broach bearing the crest of Thingol. The robe itself seemed to have many collars in various shades of grey and blue that were layered beneath its outer collar, each revealing a glimpse of color at the elf's throat. His boots were of glossy black leather with silver toes and his voluminous cape was of a very heavy navy blue velvet lined with an equally dark blue silk, the pelt of a white and grey wolf making up the collar. On his finger was the signet ring of Thingol, glimmering in the light of the forge, and upon his brow was a crown, simple yet elegant.

He was astonishingly beautiful and yet, though he had not been marked by the light of Aman, it could not be said that this world had not left his mark on him, for his entire form and figure seemed to make manifest a bleak and savage desolation. He appeared as a waterfall in a winter gorge, stunning, and cold, and remote. Celebrimbor felt as though his throat were dry and swallowed, having forgotten entirely what he had been doing, or even what he had said.

"You know who I am," the elf said quietly with not even a glimmer of doubt that his words were true. And indeed it was so, for though Celebrimbor had never laid eyes on Celeborn of Doriath, the High Prince of Beleriand, he knew with absolute certainty that he was the elf before him now. And Celebrimbor wanted so very much to rise up in anger against this cool, calm, elf, to shatter that confident and collected visage as if it were nothing more than fragile glass, to force him to divulge each and every sordid detail of his torrid affair with Artanis only so that he could know her fully and there would be nothing, nothing that she could keep secret from him anymore. But Celeborn used space and silence in the way that most people used swords, standing now, so that Celebrimbor's angry words died upon his lips ere ever they were born as his heart clouded over with fear. He had heard that the Sindarin nobles were the tallest of all elves, and the stature of this elf seemed to attest to that. Silver tree: he was aptly named.

The Sinda began to pace with slow, deliberate steps, the path around Celebrimbor's workbench, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes studying the floor as if there was nothing that interested him more, that silver mane of his flowing over his broad shoulders to the small of his back like a stream of stars. And Celebrimbor, who despised silence and the creeping discomfort it brought, frantically tried to think of some pleasantry, to ask the prince how he found Nargothrond, or on what errand he had come, or why he had deigned to pay him a visit, anything to break the silence. But just as he had formed both the words and the courage to say them, Celeborn stopped, looking up sharply to meet his eyes, barely a foot away, and how he had gotten so close without his realizing it Celebrimbor did not know.

"Did you think that you could purchase her?" He asked quietly, his face devoid of emotion, and the question was at once so very offensive and so very true that Celebrimbor quelled before the simple power of its implications. Who was this elf to ask such a thing? Finwe himself would never have been that bold! Celebrimbor's mind revolted against the arrogance of this dark elf, his anger beating impotently at the bars of his mind.

For he had been convinced, or perhaps he had hoped, that Artanis had fallen into folly, that she had given herself over to whims and had her senses addled, that this dark elf lover of hers, if ever he were to meet him, would be some crude and rustic wood elf, an inferior man hardly fit to be called a prince: destitute, simple, ignorant, common. He had thought that he would be the sort of man she would dally with for the mere novelty of it and later discard. He had believed that she had been mislead, thus, he had believed that he could lead her instead, but now that he had met Celeborn, he found that the very foundation upon which he had built his hopes had been inexorably crushed beneath this elf's silver toed boot, for an elf such as this, who wielded power so deftly, could have commanded the attention of kings, even if he were to walk the avenues of Valinor. He was no plaything, no exotic lover to be easily cast aside.

This angered the son of Curufin, who was not even first among the smiths of Gondolin, and, though his fear was great, his anger grew greater still, and he spoke, saying; "there are those who would call it a kindness, seeing as none other will wish to wed what you have tainted."

And in that moment he was his father's son; he had hoped to break the cool confidence of this Sinda, to exacerbate his emotions, if he had any, yet the silver-haired elf paid no heed to Celebrimbor's bait and said instead, "is it her association with me that taints her?" It was such a simple question, and yet Celebrimbor realized it for the master stroke that it was, for in those few unassuming words Celeborn had not only cut his argument down to a stump, he had uprooted it entirely. To argue against what he had just said would be tantamount to condoning the kinslaying.

Though Celebrimbor had never held with nor approved of the actions of his father and his father's brothers, he felt his hand twitching, as though it wanted to take up the dagger that was clasped to his waist and plunge it deep into that Sindarin prince's unfeeling heart if only to see the shock on his face, or the surprise in his eyes, or, at the very least, the dimming of his fea fleeing his body if only so that he might prove that he, Celebrimbor Curufinian had some modicum of control over this dark elf. No other elf had ever inspired such hateful or evil thoughts in him.

Their positions ought to be reversed, he thought with spite, for he, Celebrimbor Curufinian, had been born in Aman, born under the light of the trees, blessed and christened by the Valar themselves. And this…this Celeborn Galadhonian, his name was unknown to the Valar, he had been born into darkness and shadow, would have been an elf full grown ere he ever knew what light was, or experienced the coming of day.

"She owes you nothing," he said.

"No," Celeborn said calmly, "she owes me nothing, just as she owes you nothing." Celebrimbor felt hot tears of anger rise to his eyes even as his hands trembled, for it was one thing to know he had been defeated, and defeated so easily, but it was another thing to have his defeat made clear and verbalized, to have his hopes and dreams snatched away so handily.

"For what purpose have you come here then, to me?" Celebrimbor fumed. "To gloat?"

"Over what?" Celeborn said, raising an eyebrow. "I too have lost her. No, I came only because I heard you were here and I wished to see the son of Curufin for myself. I wished to know you."

"It is only because you will not have her that you have lost her. If you desire her then take her!" Celebrimbor cried, admitting his loss. "What jewels, what gifts of mine could ever win her heart, much less keep it? For such is the madness of her love that she would surely follow you, even unto Mandos's halls themselves. There is not a man alive who could stop her! And all will know that the great Nerwen has at last been tamed by the ungentle hand of a Sindarin barbarian!" But even this had not provoked a reaction from Celeborn and the silver elf silently settled himself upon the stool once more.

"She is not mine to take or leave at my desire," Celeborn said simply and, to Celebrimbor's discontent, he smiled. "Nor anyone's. That is her choice." And having so said, he stood, tapping his fingertips upon the table briefly and then turned, slowly making his way down the corridor, and then he was gone.

*****

"He came to Himlad you know, your Silver Tree," Celebrimbor said, breaking the long silence that had lain between them as each kept busy about their tasks: he was forging a sword, she – as usual, sitting on a stool by the side of his forge, her legs crossed at the ankles, firelight flickering on her hair, lost in her thoughts.

"Yes," she said, coming to as if she had dozed off, "I know. You are the one who told me, or have you forgotten?"

"Oh," the silence fell once more and Celebrimbor examined the blade carefully. He hissed softly, displeased with his work, for it was fine – that he knew, but it was hardly perfect and here and there the angle of the edge was not entirely uniform, though all but the most experienced of swordsmiths would not have been able to recognize that. Doubtless, it would keep its edge…though not as well as it could have had he made it without blemish. The Noldo grit his teeth, growing frustrated.

"It is very fine," Artanis said, "fit for Fingolfin himself, truly."

"Father didn't like him," he said curtly, finding that he had grown somewhat agitated at her words. It didn't matter that she may very well have meant what she said, the sword was imperfect, he knew it, and any comment other than that was false in his mind.

"What?" She asked, confused now. Celebrimbor turned the sword and slammed his hammer down, more to vent his frustration than anything else, for the metal of it had long cooled from its malleable state.

"That Sinda of yours," he said, looking up at her and wiping the sweat from his face. He put the sword down and tightened the strip of cloth with which he had tied back his long dark hair. "Father didn't like him. He didn't like him at all."

"I wouldn't have expected him to," Artanis said with a shrug, seeming unfazed, and this irked Celebrimbor even more, possibly, than his disobedient sword. She seemed to have changed since her Silver Tree had visited, as if she had expelled her anger at last and become far more contemplative in turn. Celebrimbor did not like when she was silent, he did not like the thought of her having ideas to which he was not privy, most especially when he suspected that those thoughts might concern him, that Celeborn.

"Well it isn't good for anyone when father is upset," he told her instead, examining the sword once more.

"Given our earlier conversations," she said, "I would have thought that you might find Curufin's displeasure to be proof of someone's merit." But her words fell on deaf ears, for in his growing desperation Celebrimbor had little use for words that he could not make fit his purpose, just as he had no use for this sword that would not mind his hammer.

"What did he tell you?" He asked her and she shrugged.

"Little, really. He did not say much of what passed at Himlad. I heard that he paid you a visit as well while he was here."

"That Sinda?" Celebrimbor asked.

"He has a name you know," Artanis replied, twisting her gown between her fingers as she met his gaze with perturbed eyes. Something about it engendered a sense of accomplishment in Celebrimbor, for her mood had changed and he had made her do it.

"Walking about like he is a prince –"

"He is a prince Celebrimbor," she interrupted him, "and a much higher one than you."

"What does it matter?" Celebrimbor asked. "From what I have heard he seems content to be a prince all his life and harbors no further ambitions, or so Celegorm said."

"He loves Thingol dearly, as a father, and would serve no other," she replied.

"Well I would be a King," Celebrimbor said. "And I will, one day." It was a reminder to her, a reminder that they shared the same dream, a dream that this Celeborn did not share.

"What is good for some is not good for others," she replied.

"He is a forester," Celebrimbor continued curtly, "a backwoods foundling with all of the arrogance of a prince of Aman who had the audacity to demand that he be treated the same as if he were a prince of Aman." It was not what he really thought of course, but it was what he had wanted to think. The fact that, when he had actually met this Celeborn, Thingol's protégé, he had looked so very regal after all, like such a proper king despite the fact that he was a dark elf, had made Celebrimbor very cross for it had not been so easy to discount the Sinda as he had planned on. He doubted not that his father had thought the same thing. And he had thought to make Artanis grim with what he had just said and thereby evaporate her insolence of a moment earlier as if it were nothing more than water dashed upon a hot stove but he was quite put out to see that, instead, it seemed to cause her despondence to lift; her face was lit with a radiant smile and, wonder of wonders, she laughed.

"His arrogance…his temper," she laughed. "I had worried," she said with a smile, "that I had broken his spirit somewhat, but I have found that he remains himself. I underestimated him."

That smile, that laugh, after he had first given her the Elessar he had thought, for a few joyful years, that she smiled on his account, but now he knew that it was not meant for himself, though he was the one at her side, but that it was meant for him – for this Celeborn whom he hated with an ardent passion the likes of which he had never known. And he almost wished that Telperion lived again just so he could hack away at his trunk. But he felt near immediate regret at having thought such a horrid and blasphemous thing and consoled himself instead by remembering that it was his jewel, after all, and not the Sindarin prince's ring that Artanis wore, his kiss and not Celeborn's that had most recently graced her lips. He glanced up to see the green jewel hanging in the cleft between the gentle swell of her breasts. Yes…there was still hope. She had taken his gift, after all, a gift of courtship, and she knew as well as he did that she would never be welcomed in Menegroth.

Indeed, he had heard the servants whispering after Celeborn had left, speaking of how when the Sindarin prince had spoken to Artanis they had heard such shouting as they had never heard before, how when they had entered the room later it was to find ink staining the wall, a shattered inkpot, a table turned over; they had quarreled. Meanwhile, she must know that the alliance between her brother and his uncles was growing ever more important in the wake of the withdrawal of Doriath's support from Nargothrond. Artanis had ever acted in the interest of others, in the interest of Finwe's house, of the Noldor. After all, had she not lied to the Sindar, to Celeborn himself for nearly twenty years all to protect the Noldor? She will come around, he thought. I will make her see. There is still hope.

Artanis had risen and he looked up, surprised, for she usually stayed longer and, besides, he liked her company while he was about his work. "What are you doing?" He asked her and she turned back with a smile.

"Leaving," she said. "It was just that you reminded me of something Celeborn once said - that a crown is a crown only so long as you can keep it."

"I don't take your meaning," he said, perturbed once again that she had brought up the hateful subject of that Sinda.

"Your sword," she said, "you are worried that you will lose your place as a chief smith of Gondolin. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps a place is yours only so long as you can keep it."

And Celebrimbor was still puzzled at her words but his patience had grown thin with her and so he merely said, "well then, if you are leaving this early today then I shall expect you tomorrow."

Artanis merely smiled and said, "we shall see."


	17. The Thief in the Night

  
**A Thief in the Night**

In Cavern's Shade: 17th Chapter

*****

"She had put despair and fear aside,  
as if they were garments she did not choose to wear."

– George R.R. Martin

*****

"Artanis…" Finrod felt his breath catch in his throat.

He had thought only to bring her the letter he had just received from Angrod so that she might be able to read it too, for it contained glad tidings of their nephew Orodreth's impending marriage to, what the letter assured him and what all of the fine folk seemed to agree was a very lovely and clever handmaiden in Turgon's court. But the smile evaporated from Felgund's face like dew in the summer heat upon his abrupt entrance into his sister's chambers for what he had found upon opening the door startled him in the utmost. And she had turned towards him upon his intrustion, the shock of one who had hoped to sneak away in secrecy but been found out written plainly across her face.

"F…Finrod," she stammered, freezing as she had been when he opened the door, stuffing bundles of clothing and food into a rucksack. She was dressed in deerskin breeches and riding boots, spurs fastened to her ankles, wearing a thick wool tunic and a thicker cape, lined with fur, for it was winter. Her strung bow was across her back as was a quiver full of arrows and her golden spear. A knife belt was buckled about her waist.

"What…what are you doing?" He asked her, though the answer was evident.

"Running away," she confessed the obvious. There was no use lying about it now that he had found her out, but his reaction was not the anger that she had expected, but a strange sort of sorrow.

"Oh." He said, as if all of the energy had been suddenly sapped from. "Where to?"

"Menegroth."

He nodded, still in a daze of surprise, and silence stretched between them during which Artanis's heart recovered from its momentary shock to begin beating again and Finrod hung his head.

"Finrod," his sister crossed the room to take his face in her hands, looking at him imploringly, "it is not because I do not love you! It is only because, well, if you had a chance, even the slightest chance, the most farfetched chance in the world to see Amarie again, even if it were only for a moment, or more, even the most threadbare opportunity to repair what rift lay between you, would you take it?"

Felagund said nothing, merely drawing his sister tightly into his embrace, his golden head pressed tightly against her own, and the dry sob that escaped his throat was answer enough. They drew apart at long last and Finrod looked at his sister with red-rimmed eyes.

"I feel…" Finrod confessed, his throat dry with worry, "that I am losing you. We used to be so close as children but now…I do not know." The words had lain stagnant within him for many long years now and something about divulging them at last seemed to lift some weight from him, though he waited now in the terrible silence to hear her answer.

"I…I'm losing everyone," he began again, stammering, "first father turned back, our cousins bear me no love any longer, and though I still have their love, Angrod, Aegnor, Orodreth, Fingon, Turgon…the are so very far away. I had thought, at least, that I could keep you, and having you at my side would have made all the other losses seem inconsequential, but without you I worry that I may not have the strength to bear this…alone."

"Oh Finrod," Artanis cried, tears welling in her eyes as she took her brother's hands. "Even if I cannot be by your side you may rest assured that you certainly have my love! And Menegroth is not so very far, only a three or four days leisurely journey, two is you press hard! I shall visit you, and often, I promise! And, what is more, I do not go for myself alone, but for you as well, and for our brothers. I am determined that I shall reestablish myself in Menegroth! I will make things well again and Thingol will allow you to travel to Menegroth once more and the Sindarin military support, all of the money, the favor, I will win it back for you! This is my duty, for you cannot leave Nargothrond unattended. Only trust in me, and I shall make things as they were again."

"What do I want with money and weapons and armies when I have not you!" Finrod cried, he was weeping uncontrollably now and he felt very ashamed indeed, as though he were little more than a child. "What good are these halls, what good is this entire palace if I have no family and loved ones to fill it? And if something were to happen to you, if some injustice were perpetrated upon you how could I ever live with myself, knowing that I had failed to protect you and that you had suffered?"

"Finrod," Artanis enveloped her weeping brother in a tight embrace. "Gone are the days when we were children and you would carefully mind my every step. I am grown now and this is my choice, my own choice which I have made, and I must be free to make it."

But Finrod sank down heavily onto a stool, as though his entire body were suddenly made of lead, and with bleary eyes he clasped her hands, looking up at her. "Is this my doing?" He asked. "And be truthful as I will be now. My treatment of you these last few years has not been how it ought and I will only say that it was fear that drove me. Otherwise, I will make no excuses for myself, for the things I have done…they are inexcusable. Are you running from me?"

"No, Finrod, I am not." She told him. "I am finished with those thoughts and no longer will I run from what I once feared. From this day forward I will run only to it, and I shall confront it, and thereby overcome it, though it may require much strength and hardship." Celeborn had urged her to do so many years ago; only now had she understood his words.

"Ai!" Finrod cried, as a man in mortal pain. "You have ten thousand times my strength and a peerless heart." Then he buried his face in her hands and, still weeping, begged her, saying; "Can you ever forgive me for the things I have done, and the things I have said, and, what is more, that which I left undone? Can you ever forgive me my cruelty and foolishness?"

But Artanis drew him up and into an embrace and said. "You are my brother. Ere ever my anger with you cooled, already had I forgiven you."

And then Finrod said, "how gracious is Illuvatar, that he has graced one so undeserving as myself, with such a sister as you." After a while his tears cooled and they stepped apart, still clasping hands, and Finrod said; "An oath I shall swear, and not an oath to fear, but an oath to hope, to goodness. From this day forth, I will no longer let the fear, and doubt, and paranoia that Morgoth awoke in my mind cloud my judgment or rule my actions. Nor shall I allow the jealousy and madness of the other Noldoring princes to govern me. Henceforth, it is from loyalty, and courage, and friendship that I will speak, and act, and govern. And though the walking of this path may be the more difficult, I swear that I shall not be swayed from it, even unto my own demise." Then they embraced once more and, at last, Finrod smile and Artanis thought, or perhaps she was merely imagining it, that he almost looked as though he were proud of her. He gripped her shoulders, squeezing and then releasing them.

"Celeborn may still love you," he said, "but I am not so sure that he is able to forgive you. I could not well read him when last he was here. I beg you take caution with your heart, sister, for it is one of unparalleled benevolence."

"I know," she replied. "But it is not only for him that I go, but for myself as well. I will not be haunted all of my interminably long life by the possibility that there were choices I could have taken but did not. I would know for certain: yes or no. Only then can my heart be at rest."

"There are some questions for which there is no answer," Finrod said.

"Yes," she said, "but does that mean that we should not search for one?" Finrod took her hand and squeezed it.

"Have you seen it?" He asked her. "Have you perceived that the way may be open to you?"

"It is a possibility, but by no means a certainty," she nodded, worried that his rebuke would follow, his warning not to trust her visions, but it never came.

"That is good. I only hope that you do not think that it is the Elessar that will fix those problems for you," he confessed.

"No," Artanis shook her head, taking a deep breath. "What I have broken I will fix myself, if I can. The Elessar I mean to surrender to Thingol, payment for my passage into Menegroth so to speak."

"You think it will be enough to quiet his heart? Do you think he will accept it?" He asked her.

"Have we not heard that he grows fearful of the destruction of his kingdom?" She said. "In this he may see it renewed; it may bring him hope, perhaps by it he can bring some sort of renewal to Doriath. I would see that done, if it is possible. But…if he will not accept it then I will find another way in. I am determined to renew the bonds of friendship between our peoples."

"Surely you will have to pay a heavier price than merely surrendering your jewel, no matter how magnificent it is," Finrod said.

"Yes," she said, "and I do not know what that shall be, but I am willing to pay it, or work for it, or fight for it if I must." Celeborn's words echoed in her mind.

"And what if you are unhappy?" He asked her, concerned.

"You know," she said, tucking his hair behind his ear, "strangely enough it was the Elessar that made me begin to think that that is a matter that is up to me rather than a stone or geography."

And Finrod embraced her again. "Be well Artanis," he whispered and they broke apart again, Artanis bending to pick up her rucksack and shouldering it.

"Galadriel," she said with a smile. "My name is Galadriel, or so it is if what you have said yourself holds true: that a true gift is without conditions."

Finrod grinned and saluted her as if she were a great general. "Then do not sneak out like a thief, Galadriel," he said. "Come, let us go to the stables. You must take my horse, for he is faster and stronger than yours. There are orcs and wargs and worse things out there."

The stables were nearly pitch black when they arrived, for even the grooms had gone to sleep by now, and Finrod was forced to light one of the extinguished torches with the solitary candle they had found burning in the lantern at the entrance.

After that it was a quick matter of getting his magnificent bay charger saddled and bridled. The horse stamped his feet in anticipation, eager to know that he would soon be allowed to run, and Finrod patted his neck.

"Are you sure you will not wait until morning?" He asked her. "I do not like this business of you going at night, for that is when orcs travel. You have not much experience with combat in this land. And besides, I would rather send you off with the fanfare that you deserve." Galadriel clasped his hand, smiling.

"I cannot wait a moment longer, for my own heart cannot abide it. And you know as well as I that Celebrimbor would seek to prevent my departure by any means necessary," She told him.

"Do not concern yourself with Celebrimbor or the Feanorians," Finrod said. "I will deal with them." His eyes were resolute, though she knew it had taken him great courage to say that.

"Only do not be overly harsh with Celebrimbor," she begged him. "For you were right to say that he has a kind heart. He does not mean ill."

Finrod nodded his assent and then said, "you risk your life sister."

"There are worst things to lose," she said. "Our cousins are living proof of that. I think, for once I should like to no longer be content to live in the shadow of others. I would like to live on my own terms now, though the circumstances may be less than desirable. We need not forswear ourselves to any oaths Finrod. For they exist only so long as there are those willing to follow them."

"Very well," he said, though the look in his eyes betrayed that his fears had not been assuaged, "and do not stop until you have crossed within the fence of Doriath. Send me a letter as soon as you are able."

"I promise," she said. And Finrod would have used many more words to implore her take care of her safety but Galadriel was, as ever, impatient, and she swung up in the saddle but Finrod reached out once more to grasp her hand and looked her straight in the eye so that she would know he meant it.

"Galadriel," he said firmly, "you have my love, always."

"I know," she smiled, "and you have mine."

She squeezed his hand once more, briefly. "May Illuvatar protect you," he whispered, and then she was gone: a clatter of hooves upon cobblestones, a flash of gold in the moonlight, an echo in the deepening silence.

Her words still reverberated in Finrod's mind, like the tolling of a bell. We need not forswear ourselves to any oaths. He knew that she had been referring to his dark prophecy, telling him in her own way that he need not bind himself to what the foresight had shown him, that it was his own choice whether he would or no, but for some reason, despite his concern for his safety, despite the dark visions that clouded his mind, it seemed that the clouds of worry had parted for a moment to allow the sunshine to slip through briefly.

Galadriel. He laughed to himself. Perhaps Celeborn had named her even more aptly than he himself realized. I wonder, Finrod thought with a grin, if Doriath is prepared for a second unlooked for rising of the sun. It seemed then that his sister had inspired a new sort of courage in his heart and that courage began to burn like embers in his chest and it grew until it was fanned to full flame. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for more than one return; Celebrimbor had quite worn out his welcome.

Galadriel bent down over the neck of the horse as she turned to the northeast, heading towards Doriath at a full gallop. It was something that she did partly for speed, for she knew that Finrod was right, that it was dangerous to travel across these plains on her own. The Fens of Sirion were the closest place at which she might enter within the girdle but it would still be a good two days ride until she reached that point, even if her horse did not tire. Yet she also bent low over the horse's neck because the winter winds that came whipping across these plains were bitterly cold, chilling her to the bone despite her elven constitution and her woolen garments. The heat of the horse provided some measure of warmth.

But Finrod's charger did not tire, leaping forward eagerly, and she found herself all the more grateful for her brother's gift of such a sound horse. The path was straight between here and the Fens of Sirion and populated not by thick forest, but merely the tall grasses of the plains, frosted in a thin blanket of snow that crunched beneath the horse's hooves. In the dark she could see the dark, tall shapes of the Andram far off to her right and to her left merely the grasses of the plains swaying in the nighttime breeze.

She felt compelled to stop then for a brief moment, reigning in the charger, who pranced and snorted, his breath a thin mist that glimmered in the light of the harvest moon, so big and round and golden, like an orange or a lantern hung in the sky. There was a profound silence that filled the air, great and encompassing, over the vast and empty plains. The horizon seemed to stretch on forever into infinity and, in the darkness, Galadriel could not tell where the earth ended and the sky began. Rather, they seemed to bleed into one another and she felt as though she sat in the midst of a sphere of pure starlight. It was a world vast and remote, magnificent and wild. She became aware, suddenly, that she could no longer hear herself breathing in that silence, for the majesty of that place seemed to have stolen her breath away.

Was this what it had been like? She wondered. Was this how it had been before the coming of the sun? And in that moment she could not help but think that the presence of Morgoth, of evil here in this land did nothing to diminish its beauty. Arda marred the elves of Aman had called it. And Celegorm had called Celeborn impure, and her by association, and yet at this moment she found, almost, that it was that impurity, if one could call it that, that made it all the more beautiful. For in Aman she might have looked upon such a harvest moon and been entirely sure that she would live to see another, indeed, the question would never have broached the boundaries of her thoughts. Yet here she did not have that certainty, and, somehow, the knowledge that these grasses would die, that these river might run dry to never be renewed, that the very hills at her back might collapse into the earth, that she who lay under the curse of Mandos might spend her life utterly ere ever she experienced another such night made this moment all the more beautiful, all the more precious.

The beauty of it was that it would not endure, and just as it could not wait, neither could she. Giving the horse a swift kick, she set off at a gallop for Doriath once more and worry did not cloud her heart, but rather, it was filled with awe at the majesty of this earth and that only served to drive her forward, for this was her home and she was determined to establish herself in it.

At long last the rising sun began to burn the edges of the horizon in shades of pink and crimson and, in that dim light of the promise of day, she could see the world as if painted all in ghostly colors of gray and the hues of the dawn seeped slowly into the grasses and the earth and the mountains like wine staining a cloth or paint a canvas. It brought her some modicum of relief, for she knew that orcs would not likely travel during the light of the day. Yet she did not decrease her pace, but continued with speed for her heart was eager to be home again.

Even at noon, when the sun had climbed high into the sky, the winds were bitterly cold and Galadriel flexed her hands, stiff with chill inside her gloves, gripping the reins more tightly. The sparse shrubs and trees were gilded in hoarfrost so that even in the light of day they glinted like silver. She had made good time and covered much ground by the time that evening drew nigh and so she began to wonder if it might be possible for her to reach the girdle by the next morning.

This night was not as spectacular as the last for the harvest moon had already waned, a mere shadow of its former glory, yet she hardly gave even a passing thought to the scenery now for she recognized this land and knew that she was drawing near to the borders of Doriath and now that only a few more hours remained until she was in Doriath itself she was suddenly plagued by worries. For, supposing that she could no longer pass within the girdle…but no, Thingol had said himself that he would not fence them out. And yet, suppose that he did not find the Elessar an adequate enough payment for her passage. Supposing they shut the gates against her and nothing she could do would work? Perhaps, she feared, she might even find that Thingol had changed his mind and that he would send her back to Nargothrond forever, having decided to permanently close Doriath to them.

But, despite her concerns it seemed that for the first time in a long time she felt as though she were going home and, her heart gladdened by this knowledge, she rejoiced upon the rising of the sun to see that in the distance the marshes of the Sirion lay before her and, to the north of these, the finger of the forest of Region that was on this side of the river. Turning towards the forest she galloped on and soon enough she could see the clouds of mist billowing out of the forest like a great wall reaching high up into the sky: Melian's girdle. Illuvatar, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks and her heart seemed to take flight, bursting the bonds of her chest, soaring above as wild and free as this land. She laughed, joyously, madly; she was almost there.

The horizon began to burn to light like a parchment lit aflame and yet the great insurmountable wall of mist billowed from the forest like waves breaking upon the shore. Yet in the midst of her elation, she had only the faintest warning, the shrill whistling noise of a projectile speeding through the air before she felt a sharp pain in her leg and looked down, shocked, to see a crudely hewn black arrow protruding from her thigh, blood bubbling slowly around the puncture.

In her shock she had reined her horse to a stop and this had been a mistake, for she had to raise her arm to protect her head as several more arrows flew her way. They missed, but she felt the horse shudder in fear, for he had sensed her confusion and panic, and another arrow glanced off of her bracer. Turning, she saw that a small band of orcs had emerged from the marches, rushing forward towards her and, in a bit of a panic from the unexpectedness of it all, she struggled to draw her bow and string an arrow. But it was too late, for the arrows were flying about wildly now and her horse, sensing her panic still, panicked himself, rearing high into the air and dumping her unceremoniously on the ground. Before she could stand or draw her knife the orcs were upon her and it did not take her very long to discern why they had not killed her outright.

"A she elf!" They cackled and she felt some of them grab at her arms and legs even as she struggled to fight them off. A large, yellow-eyed orc with pupils like a cat's climbed atop her, laughing. His hair was black and greasy, his skin smelt of oil, of shit, or putrid meat, and his teeth were pointed and rotten, brown with tar. She nearly retched at the stink of him.

"She's a pretty one!" He crowed and, to her horror, she felt his knees forcing her legs apart. She tried with all her might to throw them off but she had not the strength. Illuvatar help me! She cried in her mind, her heart racing. She struggled as he reached for her tunic, tearing away the clasps as she felt his teeth bury themselves in her neck. One of the orcs holding her legs pushed the arrow in deeper into her leg and she screamed in pain while the orc atop her tore at her undershirt and she heard him give a cry of delight as the fabric gave way. He had discovered the Elessar. His claws scrabbled at the jewel and she felt the chain snap as he tore it from her neck, stuffing it with delight into the pouch at his belt. She struggled to reach her knife, taking advantage of the orcs' momentary distraction and delight at having discovered such a thing, but her fingers had only just reached the hilt before they realized what she was doing and they pinned down her offending arm. Her elbow was trapped beneath her at a painful angle and one of them hit her solidly across the face.

"That'll learn her to try that again!" He shrieked but another one of them swiped at him, growling.

"Don't ugly her up fore I had a turn!"

Galadriel could feel her heart pounding and struggled to maintain a clear head, pushing back the panic and terror that threatened to overwhelm her. Her muscles ached from the stress she was exerting on them in an attempt to break their hold, to reach her knife, yet it was to no avail.

"Stupid girl. Coming out here alone," the orc laughed as he unbuckled his belt. "You Doriathrim don't know any better. Think you're all high and mighty, Thingol's people do. We'll see how high and mighty you are after a taste of what we're going to give you. Shoulda known better than to anger the king under the mountain!"

Galadriel struggled violently in one last attempt to throw him off yet, even as her strength began to fail her, the orc atop her was suddenly sent flying while the others released her, for Finrod's charger had returned, snorting loudly, his eyes fierce and he launched yet another powerful kick at one of the orcs, sending him flying.

Galadriel sprang to her feet, having little care for her open tunic and shirt, and grabbed up her bow from the ground, slinging it over her back once more as she drew her spear. She charged after the horse, who was pursuing the fleeing orcs, stumbling a bit from her injured leg, trying to ignore the searing pain there, for her intent now was singular: to slay these orcs down to the very last one.

She passed by the one who had been atop her and it looked as thought the blow from the horse had killed him so she need do no further work there, only she snatched up the belt he had unbuckled that contained the Elessar within its pouch. She caught the orcs soon, and it appeared as though the horse had killed yet another of them, his teeth clenched tightly around the orc's throat, shaking his limp body like a ragdoll. Galadriel drove her spear cleanly through the heart of another of them and pulled it out, turning about to parry the blow of one of the other orcs. It was a quick battle that ended with him upon the end of her blade. She kicked his body loose and turned towards the final surviving orc, who was running about aimlessly, squealing like a pig. She beheaded him with a single stroke of her spear and his decapitated body fell to the ground, twitching before going still as stone.

She stood, breathing hard before bending to wipe the blade of her spear on the grass and the bay charger returned to her side, stamping his feet on the frozen ground. "Oh," she breathed, trembling as she wrapped her arms about his warm neck, "I have never been so frightened." Then, still shaking, she pulled herself up into the saddle with some difficulty and, tapping her spurs against the horse's side, they made the short trek to the wall of mist, the world obscured as they passed through the fog and then, at last, Galadriel was within Doriath once more, yet her joy of a few minutes earlier had completely evaporated.

She rode until she reached the Sirion with little care for her state of undress or the wound in her leg but, by the time that she reached the banks, the fire that had been pumping through her veins had cooled and the pain from her wound was beginning to lance through her. She had been cut before, but never shot, and it hurt a good deal more than she would have anticipated.

Sensing her discomfort, the horse came to a halt at the banks and she slipped gingerly from the saddle. And, even though she tried to dismount as gently as possible, just the slightest touch of her right foot to the ground sent shockwaves of pain coursing up her leg. Slowly, awkwardly, she limped forward to the edge of the water and sank down to the cold sand there to examine her wound more closely. And, perhaps because the fire that had been coursing through her veins had cooled, the chill winds against her bare chest reminded her that her shirt was open.

Looking down she saw that her cotton shirt had been torn completely in half down the center. Her wool tunic still had a few remaining clasps that had not been torn off and these she refastened, though it did not do enough to cover her. Taking the edge of her cloak, she tore off a long strip of fabric and wrapped it over her shoulder and between her breasts around her torso before tying it beneath her arm, binding her tunic closed somewhat.

The blood that had bubbled from her leg wound was dry now and it seemed that outwardly at least, it no longer bled, but the pain was incredible. Fearful of the worst, she reached out to touch the roughly hewn black shaft for it looked as though it were slick with some liquid that did not appear to be blood. The very touch of her fingertips to it caused a fierce burning and itching sensation to sear across her skin. Trembling, she held her fingers to her nose and sniffed them, inhaling a heady chemical stench. She coughed violently; her worst fears had been confirmed: poison.

Her thoughts ran hither and thither; perhaps she would lose the leg and be as Maedhros or perhaps this would even kill her if she could not reach Menegroth in time. She was not a healer herself and had paid little heed to those in Aman who had tried to teach her, a fact that she now rued with all her heart, but she had seen many a poisoned wound in Menegroth and she had met those who had lost limbs to orcish poison as well, even seen those who had perished. Poisoning was not an easy death and now here it was, her own traitorous veins channeling it throughout her entire body.

I must reach Menegroth ere I it addles my mind, she thought, forcing herself to remain calm. She struggled with the clasp of the pouch on the orc's belt that she had buckled about her waist but it would not budge and, at last, she tore the belt from her waist in frustration, breaking open the clasp of the pouch with her dagger and dumping the contents out upon the ground. The Elessar spilled forth in gleaming green and silver magnificence and she caught it up, breathing in relief, pressing it to her wound.

It had not been made for this purpose, she knew, but perhaps it could provide some relief, or slow the poison a bit. Her hands were shaking and she struggled to recall the words of healing that Melian had taught her. She could hardly remember them, for she had not been paying close attention, her mind on fighting, and dancing, and keeping secrets, focused instead on the way that Celeborn's hair shone in the moonlight and other such silly notions. The pain did diminish, if only the slightest bit, but though the black and green about the wound ceased to spread, it did not decrease. It was not good enough. She must get to Menegroth or else she would die alone in the woods here and who knows if they would ever find her bones, or anything else that might be remitted to her brothers. But the Sirion was wide and fast here. She could not ford it, nor swim it, for the swift currents would surely sweep her away. Yet she knew that there were Sindarin settlements along this river, elves who made their living ferrying others across the water and piloting the barges that brought grain and other goods to Menegroth.

She turned, taking up the orc's satchel once more and returning the Elessar on its broken chain to the pouch but what she saw upon the ground there, what she had dumped out of the pouch without noticing when she had retrieved the Elessar, cause her to start and, for a moment, to forget her own troubles. There on the ground were spilled golden coins, and not just any golden coins. With a trembling hand she reached out, holding one up to the noon light. There, engraved upon it was the seal and likeness of Naugladur, King of the dwarves of Nogrod: dwarven money. And she would have thought, perhaps, that these orcs had slain dwarves and plundered their corpses had she not, at the moment she touched the coins, recalled the words that the orcs had spoken to her. Ought not to have angered the King under the mountain! At the time she had not thought much of it, though the words had been strange, for her only thought had been to slay the orcs. But now, seeing the coins upon the ground, recalling everything that Celeborn had told her, the possible significance of such a thing troubled her. Were they in league with Morgoth?

And, just as the thought crossed her mind, a strange and foreboding vision came upon her. There in the darkness was a light, as luminescent and bright as one of the Silmarils and Menegroth was dark, so very dark, as if all of the lamps had been snuffed out. She stumbled through the corridors, tripping over something and looked down to see, as if dimly through a tarnished mirror of brass, a face swimming in and out of view, a familiar face, though she could not perceive it clearly, but what she could see was his hair, silver as moonlight upon the Sirion, stained with blood, and she stumbled back. Celeborn! It was as though her heart had been rent in two, as though her fea was being slowly siphoned out through her pores, and she clutched at the wall for support, but it was slick and, as she took her hands away, she saw that they were covered in blood, dripping with it. The sound of the dwarven tongue rang softly in her ears.

Concentrating, she lifted herself away from the vision, controlling her breathing, her hands trembling, for she wanted to do nothing more than cry aloud with the fear, the impossible fear that she had foreseen the death of her beloved. She stuffed the coins back into the pouch and buckled it about her waist once more. She must get to Thingol as quickly as possible, not only to prevent her own death, but to prevent that of Celeborn as well. "Belegroch," she called to the horse, rising to her feet slowly, her throat dry, and he lifted his magnificent head from the water where he had been drinking, looking at her with bright and inquisitive eyes. She grabbed hold of his mane and, with a great deal of trouble and even more pain, swung herself up into the saddle. She clutched her cape tight around her, shivering in the cold winter sun, and began the trek upriver.

The reeds swayed in the breeze, clattering like bones, and now and then she saw the rafts and boats of the Sindar heading downriver, but though she called out to them, they could not hear her and mistook her cries of help for greetings, merely raising their hands in return. By that evening she had almost gone so far as to reach that place where the Esgalduin flowed into the Sirion and it was there that she saw fires burning in the beginning of the twilight: a village.

Her heart leapt in relief and yet she wondered if the elves there would recognize her, if they would refuse her help and passage, yet she had no choice but to seek aid, even if it was refused.

"Mae g'ovannen!" She cried as she approached the town, raising her hand in greeting. It was a moderately sized settlement and, from what she could see, a more prosperous one, for some of the Sindar who lived in the outskirts of Doriath lived in huts of sticks and skins, yet these lived in elegantly crafted thatched huts, of which there were many.

"Mae g'ovannen!" Several voices called, a group of young male elves by the bank of the river. They stood with their barge poles in hand, dressed simply, and though they wore broad brimmed hats over their long dark hair, their faces were still quite tan, the effect of working in the sun on the Sirion all day. They grinned at her approach, elbowing one another and saying something in quiet voices that she could not hear, but their rambunctious grins turned to concern as she drew closer, for they could see quite well now her state, both the arrow protruding from her leg and her torn tunic.

"Lady!" They called, dropping their barge poles and rushing forward to assist her. One of them took the reins to her horse, leading her into the village, where people turned out of their houses to stare. Another of the young lads ran at her side.

"Tell me," he said, "who are you, and what business brings you here, and how came it that you have been wounded in such a fashion? For I can see that you are not a Sinda, nor one of Denethor's people, nor one of the Avari, and your horse is very fine and your weapons finer still, so I must surmise that you are of noble birth.

"My name is Nerwen she said," looking down exhaustedly into the kind dark eyes of the youth, "and I am a warden in the court of Finrod Felagund, the vassal of King Thingol. I bring urgent news for your king and, in my haste to deliver it, I paid not as close attention as I should have. I was ambushed at the fens of Sirion by a small band of orcs who gave me this wound and…and attempted to violate me."

"Ai!" The lad cried, "such ill tidings we receive of late! Since the attack on Hithlum our borders have been thick with such bands of orcs. You ought not have travelled alone lady! Does not your King in Nargothrond not know how besieged we have been of late?"

"Communication between Menegroth and Nargothrond has been sparse these days, ever since King Thingol learned of the kinslaying from the children of Finarfin." She said. "Yet the message I bear is of the utmost importance and my Lord bade me make all hast, thus I traveled alone."

"Yes," he said. "Our High Prince Celeborn visited some years ago bearing the message of those unfortunate events. It does not mean much to us younger folk, but you may find that the older elves here still harbor a grudge against the Noldor. But it is not so bad as in our capital, or so I have heard. I would not expect a warm welcome in Menegroth if I were you Lady."

"No," she said, "I do not expect one."

"They did not harm you did they lady?" He asked her. "Other than your leg of course I mean? Very strange to see a Noldorin warden in these parts, especially a lady. I had heard it is uncommon among your folk."

"You are right," she said. "Female wardens are far rarer among my people, though not unheard of. And no, other than my leg I am unhurt," she told him. "But I fear that if this wound goes untreated it may be the death of me. I am no healer."

"Fear not," he assured her. "For we are taking you to the healers now. And I should expect that our village chief should like to speak with you as well."

"My thanks," she told him. And, even as she said it, they had arrived a large cabin with a broad porch and a generously thatched roof upon which the snow lay like a heavy blanket. It was a finely made house and, in the winterscape, quite picturesque. The two young elves that had led her there helped her down from her horse while another elf led him off to feed and water him. She began to limp towards the cabin but the two young males lifted her and, carrying her between them, brought her up the steps to the porch, where a great number of elves had gathered now, speaking in hushed tones behind their hands. They kicked off their boots at the entrance, carrying her over the threshold of the cabin and there a portly, dark-haired elf woman greeted them, ushering them into a room where she directed them to lay Artanis upon the woven reed floor. The rooms appeared to be separated by a network of sliding doors made of wood and paper and they slid open now, admitting several younger female elves.

"Go now," the dark haired elf woman instructed the young men, "tend to her horse and one of you run to fetch the chief."

"There now dearie," the woman said, "you're safe now. Tell me, what is your name."

"I am Nerwen," Galadriel replied, "a warden of the Lord of Nargothrond, Finrod Felagund, King Thingol's vassal."

"Cruel of him to send you on your own," the woman said as the young elf maids bustled about, bringing bandages and healing herbs, clean knives and boiling water. "There's a fair number of orcs about these days, more than in the past. It's very dangerous outside of the fence." She examined the wound with a keen eye and, momentarily, a tall, thin elf with a pointed face and dark hair entered, accompanied by two others.

"Chieftain," the healer acknowledged his presence. "This is Nerwen, a warden of Felagund. The boys say she is carrying a message for our King."

The elf with the pointed face stepped forward. "I am Doronron," he said, "the chieftain of this town and I would speak with you, for you must understand," he said, looking into Galadriel's eyes, "that we have many misgivings regarding your people, for it was not so many years ago that the Prince of Doriath visited our village, giving us warning from Thingol himself of what your people had done and kept secret. How am I to know that you are not one of the children of Finarfin yourself or worse, one of Feanor's ilk? If I cannot have proof of that then you must understand that I cannot allow you to pass."

Galadriel shrieked in pain at that moment, rather than replying to Doronron, for the healers had broken off the shaft of the arrow and pulled it from her leg before quickly pressing gauzy bandages and healing herbs over the wound, whispering words of healing over it.

"I…I…" she stammered from the pain, doing her best not to cry, "I can offer you no proof my identity Sir," she said. "Save to say that I assure you I am no Feanorian, else I would not have been able to pass through the girdle and to offer you my assurances that we of Nargothrond share in your dislike and distrust of Feanor's people, though they be kin to my Lord. As for whether I be a princess of the Noldor, I can do nothing other to assure you that I am but a simple warden than beg you consider the circumstances of my travel. I know not how it is with your people, but my lords do not allow noble born women to travel on their own for fear of danger. However, we female wardens, though we be few, often travel on our own."

Doronron was silent for a few moments before he spoke again, looking only partially satisfied by her answer. "If that is all the proof that you can offer, your word, then I would require that you show me the message you bear," he said, "for we have learned well not to trust the words of a Noldo."

"My apologies Sir," she replied. "I would show it to you if I could, but I am sworn to confidentiality for the message I bear is of a very sensitive nature. It is to be delivered into King Thingol's hands and his hands only, by the direct order of my Lord Felagund. And I must further submit that you would thank me for withholding this message if you knew the contents of it, for it would drive your people into a panic. No Sir, I am very sorry, but I am sure that you must understand my loyalty to my Lord's orders, just as you are bound by the orders of your own King." The chief nodded, as though considering her points, but the healer spoke up.

"Chief Doronron Sir," she said. "I must also tell you that she must be sent to Menegroth if you wish her life to be spared. For we have removed the arrow and closed the wound well enough, but this poison is beyond my power to heal. Only the healers of the capital can stop its spread." Galadriel felt her heart quiver in her chest and looked to the chieftain, who nodded again at the healer's words.

"I will take council," he said simply and stepped out into the hallway, his two counselors sliding the screen shut behind him. Yet it was a formality only, for Galadriel could hear their muffled voices through the thin paper screens. The healers gave her furtive glances as they cleaned their tools and bandaged her wound.

"A warden? Her clothes may be those of a warden and her steed may be a warrior's horse indeed, but her face is too fair! How could she be anything but a noble lady? It may well be that she is even the Artanis that we heard of, who lied to our King, for did he not say that she was gold of hair?" She heard one of the counselors say.

"That seems poorly reasoned." The other counselor said. "Beauty does not preclude whether one is qualified to be a warden or not. Some of our own wardens are very fair and besides, she bears weapons fit for battle. Certainly, a noble lady would not possess such weapons meant for war and killing. And, how are we to know what Noldorin women look like? Perhaps they all look much as she does. After all, I have never seen a Noldo before, nor have any of you." She heard the murmurs of assent from the other two.

"As she has said, she certainly cannot be a Feanorian, else Melian would not have permitted her to cross over the girdle. And even if she is, as she denies, a princess of the Finarfinians, what possible harm could she do if we allow her to proceed? She is a woman traveling alone, and wounded at that. She will almost certainly be apprehended ere she reaches the capital and, even if she does reach the gates of Menegroth unhindered she will certainly not be able to enter without the permission of the King." She heard Doronron himself say.

"That is true," she heard the one who had earlier voiced his objections say. "Despite my misgivings, It would be cruel and unusual indeed to allow her to perish, for it is true what the healers say, that we cannot cure her here. Even if she is the daughter of Finarfin, rather than a mere warden as she claims, we could not allow such a thing, for it would bring the wrath of the Noldor down upon Doriath. But neither should we be too helpful, for none of Finarfin's people are welcome in Menegroth, not even his wardens and messengers, and allowing her to pass might bring the wrath of Thingol down upon our own heads. Therefore, if we are to let her pass then let us ferry her across the river and no more. Let us send with her none of our own people to assist her, or any other sign that we have lent her aid. She should be able to make it to Menegroth on her own, even as injured as she is. Besides, what harm could a single she elf do?"

"She might lose the leg without our aid. For she would have to ride fast and that would doubtlessly agitate the poison." There was silence for the span of a few moments, and then whispering that she could not make out before the door slid open once more to admit the three elves.

"Take the bandage off," Doronron said.

"But –" the healer began to protest but the chief interrupted her.

"Take it off. Thingol would know by its weft that we wove it." Dutifully she began to unwrap the bandage.

"Nerwen," the chieftain said. "We will allow you to pass and we will ferry you across the Sirion for perhaps it is true that you bear a message of great importance that our King need hear. However, as your identity cannot be confirmed, we can offer you no further assistance than that and we must beg you swear to us that you will say nothing to our King regarding our having aided you, for his wrath would be great indeed if you prove to be one who was exiled from Doriath."

"I swear it," she said, "on the life of my Lord. And I offer my thanks for the service of your healers and the kindness of your people. I will be off as soon as I am able, for I fear that I will succumb to the poison if I cannot reach Menegroth by tomorrow. Besides, it would be best that Thingol hear my message immediately."

"Very well then," the chief said and the healers helped her to stand. The pain in her leg had decreased somewhat now that the arrow was no longer there agitating the muscle, however she felt lightheaded and slightly sick to her stomach, an effect of the poison no doubt. It would spread, and soon. "Come with me," Doronron said, "I will show you to the ferry landing." He said something then to the healers in their own dialect and one of them pressed a small packet into his hands. "This," he told her, "contains herbs that will slow the progress of the poison. If you are a warden, as you claim, then you will doubtlessly know how to apply them. But if any in the capital ask, you are to tell them that you removed the arrow yourself and closed the wound with herbs you found in the wild."

"I understand," she said, following him out of the cabin. Her leg was still painful and she had to walk with a limp, but it was not as bad as before. The dark haired lad from earlier stood outside holding the reins of her horse.

"He's been fed and watered Lady." The boy told her and she thanked him.

"Take care to agitate the poison as little as possible," Doronron told her as she took the reins.

"I will," she said, looking into his grey eyes. They were hard, but not without kindness.

"I wish you health," he said, "and a swift journey. May Illuvatar's grace go with you." Having bowed to him, Galadriel turned and followed the boy to the ferry, leading Belegroch by her side. The horse was obedient and did not shy at the water, stepping onto the raft calmly. The moon was high in the sky by now, casting its silver light upon the waters of the Sirion, and Galadriel could feel herself growing drowsy, not just from lack of sleep, but because of the poison as well. Yet to fall asleep would be certain death. They were across quickly, the young elf having skillfully navigated the waters, and he raised his hand in farewell to her as she mounted and made her way along the bank of the Esgalduin. It would lead her to the doorstep of the hidden kingdom.

And indeed, by the next evening, she could view from a distance the gates of Menegroth, yet she had taken no delight in the forest that she had been longing to see, for the pain of her wound had gradually returned and, though she had delayed the spread of the poison with the medicinal herbs, it had continued its course, spreading slowly throughout her body. Her heart had taken on a strange faltering rhythm and a feeling of drowsiness pervaded her body. Her hands shook near uncontrollably and, worst of all, she now had to stop every few miles to vomit up black bile that burned her throat like flame.

She had encountered no one on her road, but she suspected that she had been spotted, for every now and again she heard hushed whispers or saw the flash of a cloak ever so briefly. And indeed, the Sindar had perceived her approach several hours after she had disembarked from the ferry and the wardens had returned to Menegroth with all speed to relay the message.

As it so happened, it was morning when they arrived and Thingol was asleep, as was the greater part of the populace, and so they had passed the message to his herald, the Prince Galathil, who, though he dreaded that he should be the one who must deliver such news as would doubtlessly inflame Thingol's anger, perceived the importance of it and made with all haste to the King's chambers. Knocking upon the door, he was greeted by a flurry of commotion and, at last, by his uncle, who turned questioning eyes upon himThe younger elf felt his throat grow dry in dread of the words he must now speak.

"My King," Galathil began, "I bear urgent news from our wardens but perhaps it would be better heard in private." Though he had spoken somewhat quietly, the silence of the chambers seemed to magnify his voice.

"You heard him," Thingol said, turning to his servants who hung about in the background, "so why are all of you still here?" At the King's words, those gathered there scurried away.

"Galathil," Thingol said, "tell me, what is it? For I can see that you are deeply troubled."

"It is news that will bring you no joy Uncle," Galathil said, and he found himself suddenly glad that the message had not come during the night, when he would doubtlessly have had to deliver it to both Thingol and his brother, for he and Celeborn has spoken of Galadriel once since she had left, though Celeborn had been reluctant to do so, and Galathil had not well been able to discern the thoughts regarding her that his brother kept hidden. For though his older brother was well known for voicing his opinions even when they were not desired, his feelings were something that he guarded the way dwarves hoarded gems. Galathil therefore had his suspicions that Celeborn still bore some love for the Noldorin lady, just as certainly as he must bear anger at her as well, but of his true feelings Celeborn had spoken to no one and, Galathil thought, it might very well be that his brother did not himself understand them.

"But it needs saying does it not?" Thingol asked. "Speak nephew, and quickly, for I have not your patience."

"The Lady Artanis approaches the gates of Menegroth," Galathil said, the words spilling forth quickly, as though he wished nothing more than to have them out and done with. "She appears to be mortally wounded. The wardens report that she is stumbling about as though in a daze, stopping every now and again to vomit black bile. Poisoning, or so they suspect."

"On what business has she come?" Thingol asked and, though there was a tinge of anger to his words, the greater part of his tone betrayed a sense of urgency.

"I do not know Uncle." Galathil told him. "The wardens did not approach her but allowed her to continue."

"Send them to intercept her," Thingol ordered, "if she has not already arrived. Though I have not forgotten her betrayal, I would not remedy the death of kin with more of the same. After all, she is still the daughter of Earwen, my brother's daughter, and by her father she is kin of my departed and dearest friend. Finwe's line shall not diminish this day, if my will has its way. Have her brought inside and see if there is anything that can be done for her. I will join you shortly and see on what business she has come, if she is able to speak. After that, you must go and awaken the members of my council." At his words Galathil sprang away, making with all haste for the gates.

Thingol stood for a moment, considering the possibilities and, most of all, he wondered, as he so often did, whether or not he had done the right thing, the just thing. Yes, he had exiled her and yes, she had deserved it. A century was not long enough for him to forget or forgive the deaths of those he had known of old, his friends, his family, nor was it long enough for his people to feel anything towards Artanis but the bitterest hatred, and yet, despite her extraordinarily poor choice to keep the secret of the kinslaying from him, it seemed that she had chosen the lesser of evils in defending the Teleri, even though in doing so she had slain her father's kin.

What, he wondered, had made her so very desperate as to risk her life to return to Menegroth? He had little doubt that the answer to that question, in part, was related to his nephew and yet, Thingol sensed that other motives were at work here, ones he had not yet discerned. For the Artanis he had known of old would likely not have done something so daring, so desperate, so dangerous. The King drew in a deep breath and released it, striding forward at last, passing over the flowing brooks and through the great stone trees, their silver lamps flickering in the abandoned halls.

It was strange to see Artanis in such a state, delusional, near unconscious. Galathil had done well, for the healers were there already and the wardens were helping them lift her onto a stretcher. She was moving, Thingol could see, but only just so, her golden hair, matted and dirty, hanging to the floor as the wardens lifted the stretcher, accompanying the healers to their quarters. The King approached, looking down at her as he walked, surprised to see that her tunic and undershirt had been torn open, tied loosely shut with a strip of cloth. The right leg of her breeches had been torn open as well, by her no doubt in an attempt to heal herself, and he could see the wound there, the flesh around it black, it oozed putrid green pus. The veins of the leg were dark purple and he could see tinges of the same color in her hands. The poison had spread nearly throughout her entire body. There were deep teeth marks on her neck and, though it looked as though they had been cleaned, there was still blood seeping and bubbling from them ever so slowly. Her clothes bore the marks of a tussle and her face as well, for a deep yellow and purple bruise had bloomed on the side of her face and her eye was blackened.

"Can she speak?" He whispered to Camaeneth, the chief healer, and she shook her head.

"No, your highness. Only the bile comes out." She replied and Thingol could see that it was true for her entire front was covered in black vomit. "The poison is eating at her insides. We may very well lose her. But it was at that moment that Artanis seemed to come to and her eyes blinked slowly open. Thingol could see that they were yellowed and coated with a thick mucous. Her body trembled and she grasped futilely at a leather pouch buckled to her belt, her broken fingernails scrabbling uselessly at its clasps.

"Artanis, what is it?" He asked her with concern but she only struggled harder with the satchel at her waist.

"Take it," she managed to choke out, her voice a guttural whisper, and then the black bile came. Choking and coughing she vomited and the nurses rushed to turn her on her side so that she would not suffocate. Meanwhile, Thingol quickly freed the pouch from her belt. "The dwarves," she gasped, "betrayed you."

"How? How so?" He asked her frantically. "What do you mean?"

But she said nothing more on the matter and merely choked out the words "Celeborn," and "protect," with tears streaming down her bloodied face. And with one final retch and expulsion of black bile, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed upon the stretcher, her muscles spasming violently.

"Her mind is no longer with us your highness," Camaeneth whispered as they pushed quickly through the doors of the houses of healing and laid her out on a bed. The curtains were drawn about her as the healers and nurses rushed to do what they could and Thingol waited outside with baited breath, pacing as was his wont until he heard the door click shut and felt the gentle presence of Melian in his mind.

 _Was I so unjust to her?_ He asked her. The queen seated herself on one of the benches by the door yet even her usually placid face bore signs of concern.

_Who can say what is just or unjust, or who is deserving of either? Melian replied. You did your duty and what duty is may at times bear no relation to justice or to right and wrong. Though she left by coercion at your order, it was by her own choice that she returned, or so I have seen, just as it was her decision to keep silent regarding the kinslaying. Only this time, I believe, she was fully aware of the consequences of her actions and, whatever it was that drove her she deemed worth the risk._

_And you do not know what that could have been?_ His wife shook her head in response.

"The answer lies with her," Melian said aloud, "if she lives to tell the tale."

Thingol seated himself beside his wife and emptied the contents of the pouch into his lap. "It was this, perhaps," he said. "This was what she risked her life for." But he could make neither odds nor ends of the contents of the satchel: a magnificent green gem surpassing the likes of any he had heretofore seen and a handful of ordinary coins, dwarven currency. "You can see nothing?" He asked Melian and the queen concentrated for a moment but then shook her dark head.

"The way is shut," she said, "obscured by darkness. It is the poison that clouds her mind and does not allow me to penetrate it."

"Come with me then," he said. "I have summoned my council," Melian nodded in reply and Thingol passed her the pouch. "Examine this if you will, and see if there is aught you can make of it."

"Any word regarding her condition comes straight to me!" He cried to the healers as he and Melian made to quit the room. "She is to be considered a ward of the state now! Anyone who harms her will answer to me as will anyone who does not do their utmost to save her life!"


	18. Out of Darkness

  
**Out of Darkness**

In Cavern's Shade: 18th Chapter

*****

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death.  
And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?  
Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment.  
For even the very wise cannot see all ends."

– JRR Tolkien

***** 

**Author's note:** Since Tolkien never got around to creating more than a few words of old Doriathrin, what I have used is a combination of Sindarin and Choctaw with some Japanese grammatical constructs. If you want to know why please comment and I'll provide an answer.

*****

"It is of orcish make," Melian murmured to her husband as they paced quickly through the halls. "By the pattern of the stitching and the curing of the leather I am sure of it. And besides, I can sense their darkness in it." She turned the leather pouch over, surveying it with a critical eye.

"That is ill news indeed," Thingol whispered. "I wonder how it came to be in her possession." But he stopped short, pulling his wife into an alcove, his hands going gently to her shoulders.

"Melian," he said softly and his wife looked up at him, her eyes hiding whatever it was that churned in their depths. "Tell me what is in your heart."

"I…" the queen hesitated, something so rare for her. "Perhaps we have not given her enough credit. The Feanorians are far more dangerous than you anticipated and the information she provided to Celeborn was of great use. I sense that there are things afoot, evil things, that we do not yet know and it may be that we will need an ally amongst the Noldor ere…"

"No," Thingol stopped her, concern in his eyes. "That is not what I mean…not politics. I want to know how you feel, you, my wife, not the queen. The girl was dear to you once."

"She is dear to me still," Melian said, her eyes flashing with sorrow. "There are many who call foresight a gift and yet it is a terrible burden to live under. She is yet young, but has endured so much; war in Valinor, the darkening of the trees, discord in her own house, the slaying of her mother's kin, abandoned by her father, forced to cross the Helcaraxe, her young life already condemned by Mandos himself. And, what is more, I have foreseen pain in her future, far greater than that she has already endured. She is strong, Thingol, but she has endured much and is in pain; do not levy more of it upon her."

"And yet she must endure a while longer," he said, "if she lives. For things would go worse for her if I treat her with too gentle a hand. If the people think I have been unjust then they will seek their vengeance against her on their own. I must levy upon her some sort of punishment to appease them, for her own good."

"There must be some way that she can be protected," Melian said, "some position where none will be able to harm her. Menegroth is not safe for her."

"I have thought of that," Thingol said. "It may indeed be that the girl has much value. We are in over our heads, so to speak, when it comes to the Noldor and it seems to me that Illuvatar has, perhaps, dropped an answer to my problems directly into my lap…but all things in time. I would ask your council concerning this matter later, in private, for this is a delicate position that we find ourselves in now and it could go either well or ill for us; we must tread very carefully. For now I shall issue orders that she is a ward of the state, a prisoner of the crown. But she cannot remain so forever; we shall have to think of something else. And what is more, my own anger with her has not entirely abated. I still resent her secret keeping, though not as much as I once did."

"Then let us go in," Melian said, "and speak of the rest later, for they are most certainly waiting." And with that the king and queen entered the council chamber to find, indeed, that the counselors were all assembled there and they were arguing, as it seemed they constantly were, but this time with an unusual amount of ferocity. The majority of them were either in some sort of half dressed state or were still wearing their nightclothes and it seemed that their anger was directed at Celeborn, who himself was only wearing a shirt and breeches and who was shouting, red-faced, back at Saeros and his supporters even as he was being only barely restrained by his own supporters, including Venessiel and Mablung.

"You engineered this! It has your name written all over it, Celeborn!" Saeros was screaming, livid.

"Couldn't live without your Noldorin whore, eh? Well the rest of us won't suffer her!" Lirdir, the Minister of Agriculture chimed in.

"How dare you speak to your prince in such a fashion!" Mablung cried, struggling to hold back Celeborn, who looked for all the world as if he wished nothing more than to beat Saeros into the ground.

"How would I have managed that!" Celeborn cried. "And if I love her, as you claim, then why would I devise such a dangerous plan as to send her out into Beleriand alone to be brutalized by orcs?" Apparently news had already spread.

"SILENCE!" Thingol cried, moving to take his seat, and at his entrance his councilors seemed to calm themselves somewhat, though he still heard a few muttered oaths and espied several dark glances. "How dare all of you behave in such a manner in my council chamber? You and you," he pointed to Saeros and Celeborn, "if either of you ever dare to do such a thing again I will have both of your heads shorn like traitors. Do I make myself clear?" All around the room he observed grim nods.

"Then Saeros, I will tell you that I am entirely certain that Prince Celeborn has nothing to do with this. Have I made myself clear?"

"You have, your Majesty," Saeros said, bowing his head in obedience.

"And, Celeborn, you ought to know better than to react in such a fashion to unjustified rumors," Thingol reprimanded his nephew.

"Yes, your Majesty," Celeborn replied, shaking off Mablung's restraining hands with a dark look before taking his seat.

"Very well then," Thingol said, setting the pouch that Melian handed him on the table. "As you have doubtlessly heard by now, Artanis Finarfiniel, accompanied only by a horse, was observed within our borders first sometime last evening on this side of the Sirion. She appeared gravely wounded and, as our wardens tracked her path towards Menegroth, they observed that her condition was rapidly deteriorating. Sensing that she bore us no ill will judging by the fact that she had been able to pass through the girdle unhindered, they allowed her to continue but sent word to me, which I received early this morning. By that time she was beginning to approach our gates and I ordered for the march wardens to intercept her. She appears to have been savaged and poisoned by orcs. We cannot ascertain at this moment whether she will survive and, if she does, whether or not she will make a full recovery. She lost consciousness shortly after we took her into custody but, before she did so, she gave this to me."

The king opened the pouch and extracted both the coins and the jewel. "The pouch is of orcish make but we do not know how it came to be in her possession. If any of these objects have any meaning to any of you then I beg you speak now, for she seemed near mad with worry that I receive them as soon as possible but, until she is able to speak, if ever she is again able to do so, then I do not know what it is we ought to guard against." The counselors stood, all of them leaning over the table, craning to get a better look at what was there.

"The stone is called The Elessar," Celeborn said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "It was crafted in Gondolin by one of that city's chief jewel smiths, Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. He gave it to her in his pursuit to win her hand, though as far as I know she did not accept his offer. As to why she would have brought it with her I do not know."

Thingol felt his anger flare at his nephew and he turned to him with accusing eyes. "Why did you say nothing of this to me upon your return from Nargothrond?" He asked and Celeborn met his gaze with simmering anger of his own.

"I did not deem it to be important," he replied, tight-lipped. "I thought it was a personal matter only, not one of state."

"Do you not understand the meaning of intelligence gathering? Is there anything else you have not told me?" Thingol queried. "Is there anything further you know regarding this stone?" Celeborn merely shook his head and the king turned away from him in exasperation. Celeborn was, had always been hot-headed and he allowed his anger to rule him more than he realized. Thingol ground his teeth in frustration. That, at least, was one thing Artanis had been good at: cooling Celeborn's head.

"Venessiel," the king said and the minister of the treasury stepped forward to examine the coins.

"There is nothing particularly special about them," she proclaimed after a few moments. "They are normal coins, the currency of the dwarves of Nogrod, minted during the reign of Naugladir, some of them recently, others not so recent." She turned them over and shook her head, looking up. "If there is any meaning to them then I cannot discern it."

"Then I will say it," Tinuil, the minister of commerce said, her pale blue eyes hard. "Dwarven coins have been discovered in an orc's moneypurse. It is not so difficult to understand that we have been betrayed. The dwarves of Nogrod are in league with Belegur."

A rumble of conversation rose up in response to what she had said but Fingaeron spoke, saying; "Let us not jump to such a hasty conclusion. Countless times have our wardens discovered elven or dwarven objects on the corpses of orcs, things that they had stolen from those whom they had slain. It may very well be that these coins were pilfered from dwarves that orcs had slain. After all, orcs have been known to do far worse have they not?" This inspired another burst of chatter.

"Perhaps we had best not jump to any conclusions at all. After all, our king has asked merely for information, not for speculation. When Lady Artanis awakens she will be able to tell us the tale." Mablung put forth.

"If ever she does awaken," Saeros said. "From what I have heard she is at death's door." The barb had been designed to provoke Celeborn's ire but he managed to remain silent.

"That will be quite enough for today, I think," Thingol said. "My apologies for having awaken you at such an unusual hour. You may all be excused." And all of them stood, filtering out through the door, save Celeborn, who remained seated, as Thingol had expected he would. But no sooner had the rest of them exited the room than the prince started up with such force from his seat that he nearly knocked the chair over backwards. His fingers curled into fists, the knuckles hard against the table, and his jaw clenched in anger.

"You reprimanded me in front of them! What else could you possibly do that could injure my credibility any further?" The prince cried.

"And I vouched for your credibility earlier, not knowing that you withheld news of the Elessar from me! If your credibility is within the realm of reproach then it is you, not I, who made it so!" Thingol replied, his voice hard with anger. "You were ordered to tell me of all that passed in Nargothrond but you did not!"

"You know it now!" Celeborn replied, his voice filled with quiet anger, his eyes simmering with it as he met his uncle's gaze, like a pot about to boil over.

"How often those words fall from the lips of those I trust, only for them to later be revealed as lies!" Thingol cried, and Melian took her husband's arm, her eyes fierce with an otherworldly ardor.

"How many times will you turn away those who love you?" She cried. "Celeborn is your nephew. Remember yourself." And then turning to Celeborn she said, "and why must you hide away from your uncle that which he wishes to know? What cause have you to distrust him?" Yet she might as well have remained silent, for neither man paid any heed to her words.

Celeborn's anger had already been provoked beyond his means to control it and he spoke, saying; "do not compare me with her, Thingol! You did not hear the pride and ignorance with which she spoke in Nargothrond. And are you her apologist now, you who exiled her? Have you forgiven the sins of the Noldor so quickly? Well, I have not forgotten, uncle, I have not forgotten so quickly as you what it was to have our kingdom sunk into bitter and total war. You have said that the kinslaying does not mean as much to me as it did to you, that I did not know those who died by Feanor's sword. But I would ask you if you have forgotten Denethor's death! I would ask if you have forgotten how you abandoned Amdir and his men to destruction! I would ask if you have forgotten what I sacrificed for your sake!"

"Very well, if those of Aman were so important to you then go," he continued, "if you can find a way, go to them. But perhaps it is true that the Battle of Beleriand meant more to me than it did to you, for we made our sacrifices there, our sacrifices for this land, slaying those we had once loved, who had grown twisted and foul and polluted by Melkor. Maybe you have forgotten. But I have not!"

"Do you want to act as if you are any better?" Thingol cried. "You do not want to be compared with her? Then when death comes to claim her you shall know yourself what it is to meet an arbiter with which there can be no reckoning and let her death be upon your soul!"

"Then let it so be!" Celeborn cried. "What a fool she is! What an idiot! Only someone entirely devoid of sense would wander in Beleriand alone! Such a fool deserves death!" Thingol had hardly ever heard such a tone of deep seated loathing escape his nephew and it surprised him in the utmost. Celeborn took up his vacated chair before throwing it down, and striding from the room with the hotness of tears burning his eyes.

But the anger slipped away like the tide over the coming days and weeks and he struggled futilely, like a man attempting to keep water in a sieve, to retain it, for what came to replace the anger was the most horrible thing of all: pain, unbearable, inconceivable, torturous pain, as if his heart were clutched in a giant's grip. The complete illogic of it threatened to drive him mad even as he feared his heart would rend in two. The tears would not stop, and the more they came the more he hated himself, for he did not know why he shed them or what sort of feeling this was that tore at his chest and he feared how weak it made him feel. And then the dreams returned.

_He was turning, turning in the gyre of war, as if swept by a hurricane but things were not as they had been on that night atop Amon Ereb. The stars had shone down with a strange ferocity and he remembered it so well for the contrast it had drawn between the light of the heavens and the dark deeds they did upon that battlefield, deeds writ in blood, stamped in fury, carved like dark tattoos upon the flesh of the earth. But in his dreams it was only darkness, a great resounding, looming darkness that stood like a wall impossibly tall against the imperceptible blackness of the sky and with all of the ages of the world before him he would never have been able to surmount it._

_They had reached Amdir at last, standing atop Amon Ereb with his few surviving soldiers, breathing hard. "Celeborn," he had murmured in grateful thanks as he looked upon the Sindarin prince, "we had thought we would perish…" there was fear in his eyes too and Celeborn realized how he must look, awash in blood and gore, a macabre fresco of red and silver._

_But there had been no time for grateful rejoicing, for thanks, or even for fear, for there was a mighty orcish army descending upon them now and from behind Celeborn heard a cry of great anguish. What he saw in the light of the torches made his blood run cold._

_The army lagged behind but Thingol had followed his wayward nephews with no regard for his own safety, rushing forward, thundering across the plains, across the miles that Celeborn and Oropher had traversed in pursuit of them, as if by the sacrifice of his own life he could save theirs. And he had reached them at last, and whether what followed was ill luck or some foul plan of Belegur's design Celeborn could not say, yet such a coincidence seemed impossible. And yet, there were many of the Sindar who had that day encountered among the orcs faces they had never dreamed they would see again._

_Thingol had fallen, his horse slain, himself cast to the ground and badly wounded, and over him like a tower stood one of Belegur's generals. Very tall she was, and fierce, a female orc, or nearly an orc, for she was not entirely turned yet and her face was still recognizable, even to the child who had not seen her since he was but ten years of age. Her hair was long and silver, matted, tangled with blood and filth, and she sneered with yellowed, broken teeth down at the King of the Sindar, raising an iron tipped spear with a wicked point, preparing to deal him death._

_Later, he could not remember how it was that he had come to stand before the king, how he had sprinted with unparalleled speed across that field of battle, slaughtering any who dared stand in his way. But stand over Thingol he did, his axe at the ready, his eyes fierce, his heart burning within his chest and he stared up into the face of the one he had once called mother, twisted and evil._

_"Do you not remember me?" He choked out and it…she… paused, uncertain, the loathing of a moment earlier disappearing, replaced by deep memory, a longing, and he knew that she did remember, even if only faintly, she had not forgotten him._

_"Stand aside," she commanded, but her voice was laden with doubt._

_"Come back," Celeborn implored her. "Come back to Menegroth with us. Belegur has made you this way but still I recognized your face. The transformation is not complete. Perhaps it can be undone. Perhaps Melian can do something. At the least we can try! Come back to me, come back to Galathil! We can undo what Belegur has started!" Some imperceptible and subtle emotion shifted across her face, a sadness almost, and they stood in the silence of a moment._

_"You cannot fix what he has broken," she said. "Who could ever love an orc?" Emotion shifted across her face like a shadow and then was gone._

_"Only try," he implored her but her lips, if the broken and cracked flesh could be called lips, curled into a strange smile, a smile of regret it seemed._

_"And who would love me?" She queried. "Even you cannot. You would rather strike me down than suffer his death," her eyes shifted to Thingol. "Stand aside." And she raised her spear again._

_"No," Celeborn replied, his heart thundering with fear, with heartbreak, as he clutched his axe close to his chest, as if it were a shield rather than a weapon. "You do not have to do this. He is my father."_

_"He is not your father," she cackled, raising her spear. What emotion he had managed to stir in her earlier was gone and her eyes were glazed now with hatred. "You do not know me," she croaked and, later, he would be grateful to her for it, for it was the thing that had allowed him to do what he must._

_She drew back her spear and Celeborn averted his eyes, for he could not look into the face he recalled as his mother's and do what he had to. His axe was a flash of silver as he swung, cleaving deep into her side, and she had not protested, had not tried to block his blow as he clove her clean in two. Her body fell and she lay now, dead on the ground, her eyes gone cold and dark, and Celeborn stared down, trembling. She had wanted it, she had welcomed death. What was this evil that Belegur had worked? There were tears pouring down his face now, and they were less tears for her than they were tears for his people, for the wrongs that had been forced upon them. How keenly he now understood Belegur's mind. He was vaguely conscious of the Sindarin soldiers streaming past him to join the battle._

_"Celeborn, cousin," he felt Oropher embrace him, hard. "You had not choice."_

_He turned back to Thingol in a daze, helping the other soldiers get him up. There was a deep gash in the King's side and Celeborn frantically pressed his hand over it, for now he was confronted with the possibility of losing everything, of losing Thingol; he had already lost himself. "You must save him," he blubbered to no one in particular, tears streaming down his face, feeling more an elfing than a general._

_"He will be well your highness," the healers were assuring him. "But we must get him to a place were we can safely close the wound. He felt Oropher's reassuring hand on his shoulder._

_"Command is yours," Thingol gasped, grasping his nephew's hand. "Celeborn," he gasped with tears in his eyes, "I was wrong. What I said before…I did not mean it. I am sorry."_

_"I know," Celeborn said, grasping his hand tightly, "I know." He watched the healers retreat, carrying the king away and then he turned, pain and sorrow warring in his heart, but his anger towards Thingol had left him entirely, replaced by fierce determination, for it was only now that he felt that he understood the King's words... **That is what war is. That is who Belegur is.** He turned back to the teeming sea of the battlefield. He will not have us, he thought, not today._

Celeborn woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest and he clutched at it, his fingers trembling against sweat-soaked skin. His breath was coming in great gasps and his throat was dry as sand. He let his hands fall to his lap, clutching the sweat-drenched sheets that were pooled there. He could feel his hair stuck to his back. Monster. The word reverberated in the shell of his skull.

He stood and walked to the next room for a glass of water, stopping for a brief moment to steady himself, his hand clutching at one of the lifelike stone trees that adorned his chamber out of fear that he might trip and fall; his legs were still unsteady. Slowly he stepped down into the next room and stopped, standing still, trying to collect himself. He sighed. The fireplace was cold and dark. He looked up at the ceiling, at the sun floating lazily above and sighed again, shaking his head and reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He turned, reaching for the pitcher of water that he knew was on the table to the right but he knocked a glass over and it fell, smashing into tiny fragments on the floor.

He looked at it, seeing himself multiplied, reflected in each of the fragments. It had been so very long since he had dreamed of the Battle of Beleriand. Immediately after it had happened the dreams had haunted him with each waking step and in the long hours of sleepless days. They had waned in time, but they had never stopped entirely, not until she had slept beside him every night. And then for nearly twenty years his sleep had been dreamless. He would have thought the dreams would come back when she left but they hadn't, not until he had looked into Curufin's eyes, and since she had returned they had only gotten worse. He reached for the table again, taking up the second glass, and this one he hurled to the floor.

*****

"Aule's balls!" Galathil hissed and grumbled as he pulled the door open, still rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. "What in Arda are you doing awake at this hour? Why is everyone running about during the day all of a sudden these past few weeks? Can you not see how bright out it is?" The Sinda rubbed at his eyes as though he were in terrible pain.

"Galathil," Celeborn pulled his brother aside, and his face was so serious, so contorted as though he had endured torture itself, that the younger of the brothers forgot quickly his ire at having been awakened. "You must help me." Celeborn said. "I can trust only you and no other." The younger elf's eyes went wide and he swallowed hard. He could tell well enough when his brother was being serious and now was one of those times. "Listen to me."

"Oh Valar, is this one of your schemes?" Galathil sighed, rolling his eyes. As ever, humor was the means by which he attempted to assuage worry, both that of others and his own, but this seemed to have no effect on his brother whatsoever.

"Brother, this is important," Celeborn hissed, licking his lips nervously, looking very unsure. "I need you to…to injure yourself, badly enough that you must go to the houses of healing." The words had come out in a rush and Galathil paused to be sure that he had heard them correctly.

"Are you mad?" The younger prince cried. "Of course I will not do such a thing." And he wondered at what could have made his normally sensible brother have such a wild idea.

"There is no other way for me to see Artanis," Celeborn whispered and Galathil scowled. Of course, of course it would be her. He remembered well how his brother had been before she had come here: boisterous, jovial, happy. Now he reminded him of an alcoholic deprived of his vice.

"I should have know…" he shook his head, a bit angry himself, truthfully. "Dairon, Oropher, and Saeros are right. Celeborn the wise! Huh!" He scoffed. "You have little more wisdom than a teakettle and a lot more foolishness! I thought you were still furious with her. You returned from Nargothrond all in a huff and you slandered her nigh every moment we passed in conversation. You cannot be thinking – Celeborn, this is foolish! And, what is more, it is killing you! Can you not see how your personality has altered, how you are grown so sulky and somber? Where has my brother gone who used to laugh, and joke, and drink, and tease? Can you not see how I miss him. You may mourn her. But all of the rest of us mourn you!" It was rare that the genial herald spoke in such a confrontational fashion.

"Then you must do this for me!" Celeborn hissed. "For there is no other way that I can purge myself of her, that I can cleanse myself and be done with this! I need to see her. I need to see her ruined, and torn, and broken. I need to see that she has suffered! Only then can I be content!"

Galathil narrowed his eyes, for his brother's words had been dark indeed, foul even, and he would not have thought that Celeborn could think such wretched thoughts, but he reasoned with himself that it was better to have it over and done with than to let this persist for yet another century.

"The dreams," Celeborn said, rubbing his chin, "they have returned." And Galathil softened, seeing how his brother's hands were trembling.

"How long have you been having them now?" He asked quietly.

"Since Himlad," Celeborn gasped. "But they have been worse since she returned these past three…four weeks, however long it has been." Galathil shifted.

"You think it has something to do with her?" He asked and Celeborn nodded.

"I just…I keep thinking…how is what I did any different?" Celeborn's motions were quick, agitated. He touched his chin, folded his arms, uncrossed them again. "How are any of us different."

"It was different. It is different," Galathil said sternly but Celeborn shook his head.

"Melkor, Melkor, it is Melkor."

"Melkor…" Galathil exhaled. "Melkor is in Angbad, far from here. We have the girdle to protect us."

"No, no," Celeborn shook his head again, looking manic almost. "He is everywhere. The girdle cannot keep him out." Galathil asked no more questions. That was a path he knew better than to pursue. They had already been down it once before, after the Battle of Beleriand.

"And why must I injure myself badly enough that I must be hospitalized?" He asked skeptically.

"Because I must have some pretense by which to enter the houses of healing," Celeborn said. "If I can say that I am visiting you then it is a legitimate excuse and no one will question it."

"I have a very long list of objections to this plan," Galathil began, "the first of which is that you wish me to injure myself for your benefit and then that you do not even mean to visit me while I am injured, but to use me as an excuse to visit her."

"It is not so very bad, Galathil," Celeborn seethed. "You aren't a dwarf after all. You'll heal completely."

"Such a loving older brother you are," Galathil quipped, mildly offended at being compared with a dwarf. "Why don't you just hospitalize yourself?"

"I've already thought of that. Everyone would figure it out. I am not as naturally accident prone as you are."

Galathil sighed. "I can think of many other ways to do this, Celeborn," he said, "all of them better than what you have come up with. Why can I not just make sure that everyone has left the houses of healing and then you can go in while they are out?"

"That would be nigh impossible," Celeborn replied. "And it would be highly suspicious besides."

"Well you're the high prince aren't you? Why can't you just march your pretty self in there and say that you've been ordered to interrogate her."

"While she is unconscious? That makes no sense," Celeborn said, "and besides, it would be all over Menegroth by the end of the day. I am a prince, not the king; I am not above reproach."

"You are a terrible brother," Galathil said, his jaw clenched tight in anger.

"Have you forgotten that the houses of healing are filled with nurses?" Celeborn asked.

"I really do despise you," Galathil glowered.

"I know," Celeborn replied.

"What were you planning on?"

"Alcohol poisoning."

"Alcohol poisoning?"

"It's believable…for you. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Perhaps."

"Yes."

"The King's vintage, nothing less."

"You have my word, and my thanks."

"Don't forget you will owe me one for this."

"I assure you I will not."

"Begging your pardon your highness, but how could you allow him to drink himself into such a state? And on the King's finest wine no less!" The pretty, dark-haired nurse asked Celeborn with worry in her eyes as Galathil was carried to an empty bed.

"No, no, not there!" Celeborn directed. "He cannot abide children!" For they had very nearly placed him by the elflings, which was the furthest place from where Artanis lay. They moved him then to a much more suitable spot, much closer to her bed, which was the only one completely cordoned off by curtains.

"Oh dear!" The nurse exclaimed as Galathil began to vomit violently and the other nurses rushed to fetch him a bucket. They returned momentarily and, in addition to cleaning his mess, forced a powdered medicine down his throat that seemed to make him retch all the harder.

"Get it all up now your highness!" Celeborn heard one of the nurses exclaim as Galathil continued to expel the contents of his stomach into the bucket.

"He has suffered a very cruel heartbreak recently," Celeborn said with feigned sadness to the pretty, dark-haired nurse. "A most distressing event. The girl he thought to marry was caught in the arms of one of the march wardens."

"How cruel!" The nurse exclaimed, sadness in her gentle eyes as she glanced towards Galathil. "He has always seemed so kind to us…begging your pardon, not that I know him at all of course. I do not mean to presume." She blushed a furious shade of red.

"Yes," Celeborn sighed, "I have been trying to help him, but he has turned to the drinking to ease his pain. It is a very sad state of affairs, truly.

"Poor dear…" the nurse said, a sincere look of pity coming over her face. "I am afraid," she said, turning back to Celeborn, "that we shall have to keep his highness at least until tomorrow for his own safety."

"Of course," Celeborn nodded solemnly. "In that case…I hope it is acceptable if I wish to stay with him this day, for I could never sleep knowing that my only brother is suffering."

"Of course you may!" The nurse said in a profusion of pity. "I shall fetch you anything you like but I had best do it right away, for the day is dawning even now, which is when most of us retire to our quarters to sleep. I fear the day staff is rather sparse."

"My thanks," Celeborn replied. "What was your name?"

"Inwen, your grace, at your service," the girl said with a curtsy, drawing the curtains about them as she made her exit.

"The first thing you should have said is that there would be nurses," Galathil slurred at his brother later, when the sun was at its zenith and only the footfalls of the few remaining healers on the day shift broke the silence. "I would have been much more amenable from the start and we would not have had to argue." Celeborn laughed.

"I will remember that for next time," he said.

"There will not be a next time," Galathil replied, "I assure you. Valar, I feel as though something has crawled in my mouth and died. I'm going to feel absolutely terrible in the evening and it is all your fault."

"If you are even sober by evening," Celeborn remarked. "And do not out me. The nurses believe that you are pining after your fiancée, whom you caught in the arms of one of the march wardens."

"Which march warden?" Galathil asked, pressing his palms against his closed eyes.

"Whichever one you like I suppose," Celeborn said.

"Mablung," Galathil slurred. "He is always involved in those sorts of things."

"That pretty nurse with the dark hair felt ever so sorry for you when I told her of your sorrows," Celeborn said.

"Did she?" Galathil opened his bleary eyes and gave his brother a lopsided grin. "Well then it is not all bad then, is it?" But the next moment found him vomiting into the pail again while his older brother held back his dark hair. And at just that moment Inwen returned bearing blankets under one arm and a pitcher of water in the other hand.

"Oh my!" She exclaimed, and Galathil managed to stop the expulsion of the contents of his stomach long enough to flash her what he deemed a winning smile. Inwen grimaced. "Some blankets to make yourselves more comfortable your highnesses," she said with a nod towards Celeborn, placing the blankets on the end of the bed. "And do make sure that you drink as much water as you are able, Prince Galathil," she instructed, setting the pitcher on the table beside his bed and wiping two of the glasses there with a cloth she carried in her apron.

"Your name, fair maiden," Galathil gasped, grasping her hand. But Inwen looked distinctly disturbed, as though she worried he would get vomit on her, and gingerly pulled her hand away.

"Inwen, your highness," she murmured, before ducking into a quick bow and scurrying away.

"Charming," Galathil remarked, laying back and fanning himself. Celeborn managed to crack a grin. "Do you think our parents would have approved of a girl like her?"

"You don't even remember them," Celeborn said.

"That's why I asked you," Galathil replied, his eyes glimmering with a bit of anger that might have been more intimidating had he not been so spectacularly intoxicated. "But what does it matter anyway whether I remember them or not? Absence is just as powerful as presence is it not?" He said, and then murmured; "More powerful even, perhaps, or you would not have spent a century acting like a madman as you did while she was in Nargothrond."

Celeborn's eyes were sharp and angry. "You had best not speak of things you don't understand." He said.

"And why not?" Galathil asked, his drunkenness making him far bolder than usual. "That is why you are here after all – because of her. Get on with it then."

"You're drunk," Celeborn said dismissively.

"You can't blame a drunk for speaking his mind," Galathil quipped, though there was worry behind his humor. Celeborn stood, and turned away, his hand pausing on the curtain.

She was nothing really, he tried to tell himself, only a girl he had once loved, like so many others before. There was nothing about her that was special, nothing genuinely unique, nothing that was unlike anyone else except…except that she had nearly driven him from his own mind. And that, that was something that no one else had ever managed.

He could not even say, truthfully, why he had wanted to come here, save that he seemed to have been compelled by some force unknown that had first driven him to pace restlessly and at last to quit the sleepless claustrophobia of his chambers. There was no relief, no balm, no salve that could resolve the madness that seemed to have laid claim over his mind, a psychosis that had been magnified and multiplied by her proximity.

It was not love that had moved his feet, nor hatred either, but some urge to look upon her, to see that she too could be so utterly and completely vanquished, to see that she was a girl, just a girl and that he could look upon her with carefully practiced condescension and that in no part of his heart, no recess of his mind did anything resembling affection for her remain.

He wanted to see her lying there broken and battered, bruised and destroyed so that he could see that he had only been beguiled, that he had been entranced, bewitched by her beauty; that it all had been nothing. He needed to see it, her ruination. Needed it more than he needed breath. That need had brought him to the curtain and now he slipped through it quietly.

He saw exactly what he had wanted to see - that great noble lady laid so low. He had wanted so desperately to say that he was unaffected by the sight of her, but he would never have been able to make himself believe it. Her skin was pale, paler than he had ever seen it, an unhealthy pale, a wasting pallor, like milk gone sour, and her veins were deep violet, so clearly visible against her paper-like skin that it seemed nearly as though she had been turned inside out. There were bruises in places, her wrists, he could see, and her neck too, where the skin was puckered around wounds newly closed but not yet healed – teeth marks. Her eyes were open in sleep, as they always had been, and there was a strange yellowing to the white of them, a thick, greenish mucous that had collected in the corners of them, like pus almost it seemed. Her breathing was slow, and there was a rasping crackle to it, like the sound of an old parchment being unrolled and then rolled back, continuously, interminably.

A fool. She made him feel a fool: simple, and stupid, and ignorant. Not a false fool in jest, but an honest one in earnest. And there was nothing that Celeborn found more loathsome in himself than foolishness.

How simply she had done it. It had required no effort from her whatsoever. The light in her eyes, the glint of her hair, the elegance of her wrist, the twinkle of her hairpins had utterly robbed him of wisdom, he who was supposed to be the wisest, and had cast him down into the deepest recesses of the pits of folly.

Nigh on a century had he hated her so wholly, despised her in entirety for she had brought him to the very brink of insanity, so close that he had been able to look over the edge and, in Curufin's gaze see his own face reflected.

How strange she looked, how unlike herself, how unlike any living thing she seemed. He had never thought that she could look so weak, and yet she looked weaker than anyone he had ever seen, and he had seen many victims of poisoning. He could tell from her wasted limbs that she had lost a good deal of muscle in the past weeks. She was weaker than a child. He remembered when he was a child how his mother had told him tales of strange creatures, white as the moon and translucent as mist who wandered the forest with dark set eyes and limbs like a skeleton, searching, searching, ever searching for lost souls.

Somehow, he had never thought, never believed she was actually capable of death. The thought of it took the breath from him and in the vacuum he sat heavily upon the edge of the bed, watching her with a numbness so unfamiliar to him.

By his reckoning he should have been pleased, for she looked quite broken indeed and yet her frailty was not of glass that could fall, and shatter, and break, but of sunlight that, although it cannot run swift as the river and has not the weight of stone, nor the tangibility of anything with any real power, can still scald a man's skin just as surely as if he had been burnt by fire even as it is choked out by the coming of evening. And that quick-dying light seared him still.

Then he reached out and took one of her small hands into his larger one and it was cold, unbearably cold against the warmth of his own, like ice, and like ice he worried that he would shatter it, break the tiny little wasted bones like a bird clutched too tightly in his hand for he was only just now realizing that his hand was shaking violently, uncontrollably violently, quivering so much so that he quite lost his ability to grasp anything, as though his entire hand had gone numb and he drew a breath to steady himself but his lungs seemed to have gone numb too and now his whole body was shaking and the vacuum was filling, filling quickly as a flood with anger, furious anger, and his hand was clenching tightly, so tightly on her own that he thought he might very well crush every bone in her hand, all of those tiny, delicate bones to powder and he wanted to, he wanted to break them, crush them, to prove that she could feel pain, that she was alive, that she had not slipped so far beyond this world that there could be no returning. A century had come and gone yet Galadriel still held sway.

There was a strange, hot, wetness in his eyes, burning like fire, and his thoughts ran hither and thither like a bull in a rage, destroying all in its path. _You fool! You fool!_ He cried out in his mind. _What were you thinking? You idiot! Stupidest of the children of Finarfin! Why would you do it? I ought to have forbidden you leave Nargothrond! I ought to have ordered you to stay! But how – no never could I have guessed that you had fabricated such a foolish plan! Had I known I would have bound your hands and feet, put chains on you! It would have been better than this! Better than THIS! Or else you should have died! Death would have been better than this slow poisoning, this half-waking, a mind, a soul imprisoned in a corpse!_

She had risked life and limb to return to a place where her name was a curse, and why? Looking at her, near lifeless, his fea was moved beyond what he could ever have imagined and, rising from his seat, he approached her. He reached, reflexively, as if to brush her hair away but the dull golden strands broke under the touch of his hand and fell to the floor like chaff.

He drew his hand back as if he had touched a searing hot stove, dropping her hand as cold as ice, - trembling, furious, frightened, pained. There was nothing so wretched as seeing something good twisted, and ruined, and made ill. It could hardly have been worse if every lamp in Menegroth had been put out, the stone trees toppled, and the caves entirely gutted of their glory and majesty. It was a perversion, she would become a perversion of what she had once been, Melkor's ultimate weapon, the twisting of promise into destruction, of trust into fear, of love into revulsion. He still remembered that orc he had met on the battlefield, an orc whom he had once called mother.

And he…what of his fea? He shuddered at the thought of himself, at the remembrance of Curufin's gaze, at the remembrance of his thoughts from only moments earlier. No one knew how Melkor had made elves into orcs. Perhaps it was not so very difficult after all, merely the matter of introducing a whisper of betrayal, a glimmer of doubt, a hint of hatred that would fester in the soul like pus in a wound, growing, ever growing until all that was left was the wound itself, the contagion, the entire body having been wrapped in it as though it were itself one living, breathing wound. Who was he becoming? He seemed to lose his ability to breathe for a moment until his lungs reminded him with an aching pain of how much he did, in fact, need air.

They might all feign that Morgoth lay far away in Angbad, that the girdle kept him out, that they had long since bequeathed that struggle to the Noldor, having washed their hands of it, but Celeborn knew, he knew that Morgoth was here in these halls, even now, that he was here in this room, that the seeds that had made him what he was were present in all of them, only waiting for the bitter rains of jealously, of hatred, of doubt, of betrayal to germinate them.

A determination came over him then as he drew in that deep breath, the same determination that had fueled him when Thingol had fallen and he had lead the army to victory. Melkor would not have him… and Melkor would not have her…not while he yet lived. He would cast him out.

He had the hands of a warrior, rude and ungentle, used to weapon and war, even as hers were. It was magic, old magic, dangerous magic, wild magic, primitive magic, but he knew no other; he was no healer, only a killer, and killers could not give any life save their own. Pulling the sheets down and opening the loose robe she wore, he reached for the knife at his back and drew it, no doubt in his mind now that he must do this, that it was the only way. The curved blade of the weapon shone in the sunlight, and slowly, he traced the line down the center of her chest to rest over her heart, touching the skin there, grey and flushed, the dark veins carrying the poison showing clearly beneath her nearly translucent skin. He felt the press of her heart beneath her breastbone through the steel against her chest, rising ever so shallowly into his blade. Carefully he pressed down and the sharpened steel bit through her paper-thin skin easily, tearing it almost, rather than cutting, and a red ribbon of blood blossomed now on her chest. He took the still wet knife and, pressing it to his own wrist, cut a long thin line down his arm, not deep, but enough to draw the blood forth. He pressed it there, over her heart, making a fist to force the blood to flow, and watched his blood intermingling with hers, speaking in a language older than himself, older than her, older than Doriath.

_Imno agarixi em melkara agarixi._

Blood of my blood.

It was winter and yet it was spring that flowed forth, the slow blossoming of white niphredil on a hillside covered in the fresh green of new grass, the buds on the trees pushing through and shedding their hard casings to give birth to leaves, soft mist on a still pond, the slow climbing of ivy along a stone wall, taking hold, binding the stones together ever more tightly, the trickle of water in thawing creeks. And that ice choked river burst, the deluge coming now, pouring into channels, and creeks, and inlets, pushing out the stagnant bilge, forcing it, forcing it, forcing it out and away, forever away, interminably away, to the recesses of the earth and over its edge until it poured into oblivion away. Her body rose up slightly, straining against the bed, and the world, and eternity and the blackness began to ebb like the tide, disappearing, slowly moving away, first from her fingertips and then up her arms away, down from her neck away, to the center of her away as her heart pumped his blood through her body. He cast out that darkness and it dissipated, like dark mist in the air, a specter sent to haunt some other world.

He passed his hand over her chest, healing the wound he had made, and slowly he felt the power return to himself, shuddering at its return, breathing rather a little faster than normal, and it had carried something with it, some image of a great city upon a hill, alabaster towers shining in golden light, streets glimmering with thousand of diamonds strewn, and verdant hills of lush grasses rising up out of a sapphire sea.

He stumbled backwards, even as color began to come into her face again. It flowed back in like wine filling a glass until her skin began to glow the color of a peach, her lips were lit like pink blossoms, and the radiance returned to her hair. She looked like the dawn. And then she gasped, her hands twitching. But his hands were cold, his body struggling to recover, and he fled, though it was but a short ways, through the curtain and back to his brother's bedside, clutching his arm where his blood was mingled with hers, the look on his face one of a man who had just seen a ghost. Galathil looked at him questioningly, confused, his eyes darting to his brother's arm. "What…" he began incredulously.

"Come quick!" They heard a healer cry in response to the commotion that had risen up from the bed on the other side of the curtain. "The Lady Galadriel is awakening! Send word to the King immediately!"

And Galathil looked at his brother's panicked face and at the red stain of blood on his arm. "No, no…Celeborn," he murmured. "What have you done?"

*****

Galadriel could only think that she must find Thingol, that she must speak to him, and she could not stop running, searching the thousand caves, each as interminable as the next. Yet the king was nowhere to be found and the lanterns were snuffed out one by one, the corridors seemed to turn in on themselves, shrinking, and she pounded her fists futilely against dead end after dead end. There was nowhere to turn.

And suddenly there was a great jolt and she found herself in the midst of a forest except that she was not so much herself in the forest, but she seemed to be a tree, a great birch tree, long and slender, stretching her branches up to the sun, feeling its warmth upon her leaves. She felt that she could grow and grow she did, up, up, up into the heavens. It was a marvelous feeling and she could feel the vigor of her new, supple bark, the freshness of her glistening green leaves. There was a child sitting on one of her branches, a small boy with hair like the moon and she smiled at him.

"Hello young wanderer," she said.

Another jolt ran through her body, as though she had been struck by lightening and she awoke, suddenly, her eyes snapping open. It seemed she had spoken aloud, for her voice had drawn the healers and they were bustling about her now, calling for all sorts of things and issuing orders. Her hearing was returning gradually and she could make out the commotion of voices and a high-pitched whistling sound that made her dizzy. She collapsed back into the bed and, as she did so, she realized that she had no recollection at all of sitting up. But she turned her eyes away from the sudden bustle about her, turning them up, up towards the heavens, watching the glowing sun drift lazily across Menegroth's enchanted ceiling. A hundred years…a hundred years. It felt almost that time stood still in this moment and nothing else mattered at all, not the pain she felt in her body, nor the pain that lingered in her soul. A hundred years. The tears slid slowly down her face but she felt the power, dwelling deep within her, growing.

"The Lady Galadriel has awoken!" She heard someone shouting, and within her heart was a strange feeling now, as if someone else's thoughts were all jumbled in with her own, a mass of confusion, and fear, and pain. She fell again into sleep.


	19. Debts Unpaid

**Debts Unpaid**

In Cavern's Shade: 19th Chapter 

***** 

"I wanted you to see what real courage is,  
instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand.  
It's when you know you're licked before you begin,  
but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what." 

\- To Kill a Mockingbird 

***** 

When Galadriel next awoke she did not know how much time had passed but, as her vision slowly began to clear she saw, as if through a dim mirror, the outline of someone seated opposite her, someone with silver hair and, believing for a brief moment that it might be him she struggled against the weakness of her own body to push herself up into a sitting position. Her arms ached under the strain and she looked down, startled, to see that her muscles seemed to have wasted away entirely, though her skin was free of any injury. She had grown thin as a wisp and just as weak.

"Do not strain yourself, you are not quite, 'out of the woods' yet, as they say." The voice was quiet and calm, a fatherly voice, not Celeborn's, but Thingol's. Galadriel swallowed, finding that she was still breathing hard from the strain of sitting up. It was a fool's hope, she thought, to imagine that Celeborn would have been at her bedside. And yet it was better, perhaps, that it was Thingol instead. She almost believed that the king would be more merciful than his prince.

"Your Majesty," she managed to stammer, surprised to find that her voice was weak and broken and, try though she might, she could not bring it above a mere whisper. Perhaps it was the quiet of her voice that made her so suddenly aware of the profound silence of that room. Not only could she hear no sounds from other patients or the healers, but there was not even such noise as even the footsteps of a deer, the scurrying of a squirrel, or the chirping of birds.

"Now you and I will speak and there will be no other to hear the words that will pass between us," Thingol said and the only sound apart from his voice was the shifting of his robes as he leaned forward in his chair, his face coming into focus. "You crossed the borders of my land in direct disobedience of my commands." The King said, his voice ripe with anger now, an opening salvo, though it was little more than a whisper.

That voice –she thought, how much she now understood that she had not known before. She had wondered at Thingol when last she had been here, had always been on her guard around him, for he seemed to have more facets than a diamond. At times he was furiously angry, at others so serenely calm, and Celeborn had complained so often to her of how seemingly impetuously the king would make decisions while in the next breath he would criticize Thingol's seemingly lackadaisical attitude to the problems happening within the walls of his own palace. And so she had simultaneously thought him quick to anger and weak-willed, but now she understood that he was neither of those two things, for Thingol was an intensely clever elf and she had observed enough now to know that there was nothing he did that was unplanned. Both his silence and his anger had a purpose.

And she knew enough of the Sindar by now to know that there was nothing they despised as much as weakness so she did not cower before his anger and seek to beg forgiveness, but rather, she met the fury in his eyes with calm complacency and merely said, "I recall no such command."

The king leaned back in his chair, studying her now, his anger quickly dissipating. _He is like Celeborn in that way, or rather Celeborn is like him,_ she thought. _How quickly he leaves behind a strategy that proves fruitless._ In time she would find what he wanted from her, for he most assuredly wanted something. He had dispossessed her, exiled her, he could just as easily have had his wardens throw her out into the snow after healing her and, in fact, that course of action would most likely have been more well looked upon by his people, if what Celeborn had said about how she was hated in Menegroth was true. But no, Thingol had come to her and not only had he come to her himself when he could have sent any one of his counselors or princes, but he had sent everyone else away from the houses of healing, even the other patients, so that he might be alone with her. There was something Thingol wanted, something very important and that, not the Elessar, not the coins, not the information, would be her true leverage.

"I commanded you to leave this place," he said, his voice quiet and emotionless. _He is testing something._

"You also said that you would not shut us out forever."

"And yet I did not invite you back."

"That was never established as a prerequisite for my return." Thingol sat back at her words, studying her once more, his face expressionless. _He can be perfectly unreadable when he wants,_ she thought. _And when he does show emotion it is because he wants us to see it._

"You would challenge a king in his own palace?" He made reply, but there was no judgment inherent in his voice and there was instead, or nearly was, a hint of surprise. It was a genuine question then.

"I would challenge anyone who speaks truth only in part," she said. "And who is there who can judge such a thing better than I?" Thingol looked at her as though he was reevaluating his strategy.

"Sometimes I think that you have more guts than wisdom," the King said, raising a silver brow. Galadriel thought she almost saw a grin ghost across his face.

"Well that is what I had Celeborn for," she replied and Thingol snorted with laughter in surprise, doing his best to stifle his momentary outburst. It would doubtlessly have made her laugh too at any other time, but she was too nervous to indulge in the fruits of her own joke.

"I am not who you expected," she said. It was a bold thing to say and she shifted against the pillows at her back, struggling to sit up further so that she could see him better, her heart thundering within her otherwise weak chest, for having decided to do what she had was one thing, but having the fortitude to carry through on such a thing was another matter entirely and old habits die hard.

But the king made no reply except to laugh softly again and then sat, studying her, watching her with deep blue eyes that she could barely see through the twilight of the room. It was funny, she thought, that his anger used to frighten her, but now it was his silence that did so. "Who are you?" He said at last. The 'no' was implied but present nonetheless, _no she was not who he had expected._

"I am Galadriel," she said, hoping she had said it firmly enough, and Thingol laughed again, a soft sound in the silence.

"There are some who would not wish to hear you called so," he said.

"And many more who would not wish to hear the language of slayers of kin, or so you yourself decreed," she said, raising her chin, though it pained her to do it. "Galadriel is the only name I have in your tongue." She had made her choice and she would stand by it.

Thingol settled back in his chair and, wonder of wonders, Galadriel almost thought that she had seen the ghost of a smile flit across his face. "Very well then, Galadriel," the King said. "But I must advise you that it will bring you nothing other than trials and tribulations. My people have not forgotten what you did and they will use whatever is at their disposal to make you remember that. They will use that name to ridicule you, to mock you."

"I suppose that they have already done that," she said. "I would rather they do it to my face."

"Would you?" Thingol said into the silence.

"A name is about more than language," Galadriel said. "I am willing to fight for that name if I must."

"I seem to recall that you hated it," Thingol smiled.

"I did indeed," Galadriel almost managed a smile.

"Well then Galadriel, I suppose we must discuss what to do with you," Thingol said with a sigh.

"And what would you prefer?" Galadriel asked him, taking a deep breath, preparing herself for the inevitable answer.

"I would rather send you back to Nargothrond, where you will cause no further discord in my kingdom," the King said.

"I thought we had agreed not to tell falsehoods," she said firmly, though her heart was pounding. It was a gamble and she could already see Thingol's eyebrows inching up at her brashness. "If that were true you would already have done it and we would not be having this conversation at the moment."

Thingol merely eyed her, his expression unreadable before saying, "if it were your choice what would you have me do?"

"I would stay here in Menegroth and make this my home," she said without hesitation. "You may turn me out if you wish but you can be assured that, barring my death, I will return again and again and again, as many times as it takes until I am able to restore myself here. How can I understand the impact of my actions from as far away as Nargothrond? How can I understand your people if I am sundered from them? Allow me to stay and do my best to understand the wrongs your people have endured, to heal the wounds I have inflicted"

"You would seek to become one of us?" He asked.

"I am a Noldo and a princess of the house of Finwe," she replied, her eyes hard. "I will not pretend to be what I am not, nor would I expect your people to do so." Thingol seemed pleased by her answer, as if he had been testing her in some way.

"Then why have you come?" He asked.

"To make peace between our peoples," she replied, "and renew what alliance there once was. I believe that there is hope still, that all is not lost."

"And how do you possibly think you could manage that," Thingol asked, seeming curious, "by bribing me with your betrothal gift? These are dark days, Galadriel, and they are growing darker with each passing year."

"It was no betrothal gift," she replied, "but a gift only, mine to give to whom I choose."

"I had heard that it was a betrothal gift," Thingol said and Galadriel did not need to guess in order to know who had told him that.

"And did his highness the prince also tell you that he paid a visit to Celebrimbor son of Curufin whilst he was in Nargothrond?" She asked. The momentary flash of true anger in Thingol's eyes confirmed that Celeborn had said nothing of the matter. In that moment her credibility had become greater than his. What humor there had been earlier was gone now and she could see that Thingol was entirely serious.

"It is a gift fit for a king, and for a king of kings. No finer treasure is there in Nargothrond or Gondolin that the Noldor could offer you. This is a gift to you, from the children of Finarfin, the gift of a stone with healing powers given in hopes of the renewal, on a time, of our alliance of old. Even Fingolfin himself has not the like of it." She said. That seemed to please Thingol somehow.

"Suppose that accepting such a gift would anger my people," he said. It was a poor excuse and she saw it for what it was, a distraction.

"Are you so worried for your throne as that?" She asked suspiciously and a muscle twitched in Thingol's jaw. Something else was afoot then and he did not appreciate her having laid it bare. Galadriel felt as though she were drawing closer to his purpose now. "We need not be enemies, your Majesty, for our enemy is a common one."

"Obviously," he said, and she sensed that his temper had grown short indeed, that she had struck, perhaps, too close to the truth for his comfort.

"It is not only Melkor of which I speak," she replied and the king looked suddenly inquisitive. "By the time I reached the borders of your kingdom I found my hands fuller than when I had left Nargothrond."

"The coins," he said, speaking straightforwardly now.

"As I came east I had almost reached the girdle when I was set upon by a roving band of orcs," she said. "They attempted to violate me and, as they tore my shirt, they discovered the Elessar and stole it. My honor remains unscathed thanks to the good sense of my horse and, after the orcs had all been slain, I recovered the satchel into which they had put the Elessar. Out of fear for my safety I crossed the girdle as quickly as I was able. It was only then that I opened this purse to find what was inside and, it was only then that what the orcs had said to me made any sense at all."

"For, as they had been preparing to violate me, one of them said, 'You Doriathrim don't know any better. Think you're all high and mighty. We'll see how high and mighty you are after a taste of what we're going to give you. You should have known better than to anger the king under the mountain!' Having heard them speak these words and having seen that they carried dwarven money, I became convinced that these orcs were in the employ of the dwarves of Nogrod. News reached us in Nargothrond that they left Menegroth some years ago but still they may pose a danger if their thirst of vengeance is great enough."

"Unjustified vengeance," Thingol said.

"Of course," she replied. Silence hung between them like a bell left untolled and Thingol rubbed at his chin.

"Morgoth often spreads rumors through his orcs in order to confuse my agents. Neither is it uncommon for orcs to kill dwarves or elves and pilfer their belongings. This too could be just such a case."

"Nay," she said. "That is not the case. I can assure you that they certainly did not intend me to escape from them alive to return to Menegroth. For believing that they would kill me after violating me they had nothing to profit by telling me what they did. And, what is more, when I recalled the strange words that the orcs had spoken to me a vision came upon me that convinced me beyond any doubt that something foul is afoot."

"What did you see?" He asked her.

"Menegroth gone dark, her halls filled with blood. The sound of the dwarven language did I hear and the death of Prince Celeborn did I foresee." And Thingol was quiet for a long while, his face having gone dark, before he spoke again.

"When last I saw you there was none who distrusted your visions more than yourself," he said, his tone clipped. She could see now why Celeborn sometimes viewed the king as irrational. He was, at least where his family was concerned, for she recognized in Thingol now the same fear that she had seen in Finrod's eyes upon her departure, the fear of losing all those he loved, of being entirely abandoned.

"I have changed," she told him.

"Have you?" He asked her.

"Can you afford to believe it false?" She asked him. "Can either of us afford it?"

After a long silence he spoke, saying; "you must understand that it will be impossible for you to return to your previous station." She knew by his tone that she had won this battle at last, or perhaps it was that they were both getting what they wanted. "There is no one who would employ you as a lady in waiting and it would be inappropriate for you to be sustained by means of the taxes of Doriath's citizens. We shall have to find you some other way of making a living."

"What must I do?" She asked. "Surely you have already considered it."

"When you are healed," he told her, "you will swear an oath of complete and total fealty and loyalty to me before my court. You will then be sentenced according to your crime. As a prisoner you will fall under the protection of the king and none will dare touch you."

"And what crimes have I committed for which I have not already carried out my sentence?" She asked him. The conversation was quickly veering in a direction she did not like and she found now that what control she had had seemed to have dissipated entirely.

"You crossed into my kingdom without my leave," he said tersely.

"You never required that I have it. That the girdle did not stop me is proof enough of that," she said, balking at the idea of serving some sentence, of descending into the bowels of Doriathrin society.

"I did forbid it," he said. "It is not my fault if you have misunderstood. You deserve far less than I am offering you." She swallowed, having taken his point. The King before her now was no longer the kind-hearted father, he was an arbiter of fates and a harsh one at that.

Thingol stood and, for a brief moment, looked as though he was on the verge of speaking. Galadriel only glared up at him. It was unjust on some level, she knew, for her to feel as though he were doing her the injustice, for he had been far more lenient to her than she had expected, than she deserved, but still she rebelled against the frustration that threatened to overwhelm her now. What good could she do whilst serving a criminal sentence? What ties could she mend if she were not in a suitable position to do so? How could she possibly do anything she had set out to do if Thingol was intent upon sentencing her to some sort of menial labor? And how long would that sentence be? He could very well render her entirely useless for centuries. She thought of the promises she had made to Finrod, promises to help him, to repair what had been broken, to bring healing, and felt tears of anger well in her eyes. It felt almost as though Thingol were deliberately foiling her plans and there was very little she could do about it.

"I told you that I came here to make things right!" She cried in frustration. She knew it was not a wise thing to say.

The King turned back for a moment and the look upon his face surprised her, for he wore no masks now, labored under no pretenses. "Galadriel…I know we have never been the best of friends but you must trust me now." She said nothing and Thingol continued after a moment, shaking his head. "This will be difficult…" His voice trailed off and he drew in a deep breath, straightening. "I would urge you to prepare yourself." It seemed there was more he wished to say but the King turned and was gone.

The healers came later in the evening and one of them, a tall, dark-haired, serious looking elf woman in a simple navy wool dress, overtop of which was pinned a stark white and heavily starched apron, pulled back the curtain. Her hair was slicked back in a low, tight chignon and a white cap was pinned to her head. She wore a pin over her left breast, the silver crest of Thingol.

"You saved my life," Galadriel said simply.

"I treated you as I was ordered," the healer replied, moving to check Galadriel's pulse.

"Thank you," the Noldo replied.

"If it had been my choice I would have let you die," the healer said, her eyes hard but emotionless, meeting Galadriel's for a moment as she felt the pulse at her wrist. "We all saw the girl who was brutalized by your cousin Curufin. He nearly killed her ere our Prince brought her back to the safety of Menegroth. We have not forgotten what you did, what your people have done."

"I am not my cousin," Galadriel said, a bit startled, for she had expected a cold welcome but none of the common folk had ever spoken to her before in such a straightforward manner.

"No," the healer said, "but you are his secret keeper."

"Those days are past," Galadriel replied, determined that she would not give in so easily, that she would establish her place here.

"Time, I suppose, will be the judge of that," the healer said, though her expression had not changed. "Dress yourself. It is nearly time." And with that she swept from the chamber, closing the curtain behind her. Slowly, Galadriel eased herself from the bed and dressed in the simple, white, cotton shift and grey woolen gown that had been laid out for her.

She had not expected to feel so frightened. Then again, she had never walked through a hall in which each and every person gathered there despised her with every fiber of his or her being. It was only Thingol's influence that kept them silent, kept them from tearing her limb from limb, and the guards that flanked her now were there as much to illustrate her servility as they were to protect her from the pressing crowd.

Yet, neither the guards nor Thingol's influence gave her any sense of security, for the crowd still pressed about them, so close that some of their faces were but a few inches from her own, and though they did naught but murmur, she could well see by the looks in their eyes, what it was they wished upon her. She remembered the first time that she had entered this magnificent hall, how incredible she had found it, how spectacular. Now it filled her with dread and she struggled to stand tall. It would have been so much easier to run back to Finrod in Nargothrond where she would be safe, secure, loved. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest.

They pushed through the crowd but the people did not part easily and it took both some struggle and some time before they could reach the front of the hall, yet upon reaching that place she almost wished that they could turn around and go back the way that they had come for it was a trial indeed to stand there before those who had once loved her. She glanced up as the guards stepped forward to release her from the manacles about her wrists, trying to find it in her heart to believe that she could trust Thingol, that he would do right by her. It seemed so hard now to believe that there was any way of healing this horrid rift between their peoples and she wondered if she had been a fool all along to think it.

The king's face was impassive as was Melian's, and though she knew approximately what his thoughts were since they had already spoken, she could not imagine what the queen must be thinking. She had not seen Melian in a century and now her heart shivered at the thought that the queen, who had been as a friend and mother to her, may have come to despise her. To her right stood Luthien and it was far easier to discern the princess's thoughts; her grey eyes were filled with unshed tears, with anger, but mostly with hurt. Luthien was incapable of resentment, but she felt sorrow keenly and the look on her face pierced Galadriel's heart as though it were a sword for there had never been anyone less deserving of hurt than Luthien, who never spoke a foul word about anybody.

Celeborn…as ever, was at Thingol's right hand. She could discern from knowing him as well as she did, that he was struggling to maintain control of himself. Pain, anger, sadness, hurt, fury: they all flitted across his face momentarily, a cacophony of the heart, and she felt a sudden wrenching deep in her abdomen that nearly made her vomit, as if she had been able to sense all of his emotions in her own heart. She swallowed and sank into a bow as the manacles were, at last, released. Feanor would have been enraged if he had been alive to see such a thing, the high princess of the Noldor with her lips kissing the floor of a Sindarin king's hall. _Feanor be damned._ She was not Nerwen, Feanor's niece, Artanis, Feanor's favorite, she was Galadriel now. She rose.

"Galadriel Finarfiniel," Thingol said, his tone grave, "you are here today to swear an oath of loyalty and fidelity to me and to the realm of Doriath and also to hear your sentence for the crime of entering this realm without leave, to which you have already plead guilty. If this is correct you may reply 'I am'."

"I am," she said. Her voice sounded like a dry croaking whisper in the hushed silence of that hall, which seemed to be both uncomfortably large and uncomfortably small.

"Very well," Thingol said. "Kneel and repeat after me." She did as he bid.

"I, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and of Earwen, do solemnly swear that I will support, protect, and defend the Kingdom of Doriath against all enemies, whether domestic or foreign; that I will bear true faith, allegiance, and loyalty to the same, any ordinance, resolution, or laws to the contrary notwithstanding; and further, that I will faithfully perform all the duties which may be required of me by the laws of Doriath and by Thingol, her king; and I take this oath freely and voluntarily, without any mental reservation or evasion whatsoever." After she had said this, a dark haired elf stepped forward, a scribe, bearing a small writing desk which he held while she signed her name to a document bearing the words she had just sworn. It all seemed like some sort of dream, as if her body was unthinkingly going through the movements while her mind stayed numb.

When that was finished Thingol stood once more and said. "Now you and Doriath are one, even as a husband and wife, and your loyalty is sworn to me so that I may punish or reward you as I see fit. This prerogative is given to me and me alone and any citizen of Doriath who usurps the prerogative of the King shall be held guilty of treason. Let it be known that, so long as this one called Galadriel is fulfilling the terms of her sentence and therefore bound to this oath, she is a ward of this kingdom." With that he had forbidden any retaliation against her. She wondered how closely his people would adhere to this decree.

"Do you still plead guilty to the crime of illegally entering into the Kingdom of Doriath?" Thingol asked her.

"I do," she replied.

"Then, having considered your case and all of its particulars, I sentence you to 100 years in the service of Doriath as a servant of the palace. But I believe that the people of Doriath desire from you some sign that you are sincerely repentant, even as they desire to see you humbled as you deserve." The king having said this, two of Melian's handmaidens stepped forward bearing a pair of shears.

Galadriel trembled, frightened, confused at first as to what Thingol meant. "I will not have your hair shorn by another as I would a traitor's, but I will allow you to do this yourself so that you may illustrate your sincerity to all gathered here." The king said.

_No, no, no!_ The words echoed in her head. This had never been part of the deal. But she knew she must do it and so she reached out with trembling hands to take the shears. She had sworn that she would pay any price, and though she had not expected that it would be her pride, she had no choice now but to submit. But she was unable to stop the tears that began to pour silently down her face as she raised the shears, opening them, and slowly, with shaking hands cut the hair away. She wished that she were strong enough to remain calm, but it seemed that with each cut she made she cried all the harder. The crowd was speaking in hushed whispers all around her and yet the sounds seemed to come from far away, or as if they were all underwater. When she had finished, the two handmaidens stepped forward once more and shaved her head of what remained of her hair until it all lay about her feet, as though she stood in a sea of gold.

"Burn it," she heard Thingol say. And then she was led away, not through a sea of angry eyes this time, but past elves who snickered quietly and pointed at her. Thingol had publicly branded her a traitor and she tried her best to stem the tears that flowed freely from her eyes, for they seemed to her to add insult to injury, but she was entirely unable to manage it. It all seemed like some dream, something she could hardly believe, and what courage she had had yesterday had evaporated.

What passed next she did not well remember. It was all vague memories of being scrubbed clean by rough and uncaring hands and dressed in a simple white shift. She had never imagined that he would sentence her to 100 years, a century, and she gripped the sheets of her unfamiliar bed tightly, staring up at the ceiling with anger in her eyes. For a century she would be unable to do anything of real worth, unable to renew the bonds between Nargothrond and Doriath. She turned over and buried her head in her pillow. Her memory of Finrod's dark words, the vision of his doom, and Celeborn dead in the cold halls of his palace flashed through her mind. She could not help feeling that time was running out and now Thingol would force her to waste what precious time was left. But, worst of all, she felt entirely useless, worse than a child. It was something she had not felt in a very long time, not since she had first arrived in Menegroth so many years ago. She felt as though fate was upon them now and she was powerless to stop it.

The other servants returned as day was breaking, hardly paying her any heed at all except to remark amongst themselves that her hair had been shorn. She ignored them as best she could but at that moment she wished that she did not speak Sindarin at all. It would have been easier if she had not been able to understand the things they were saying about her. She stayed curled on her bed, trying to find within herself once more that courage that she had had when she left Nargothrond. It was only when the sun reached its zenith and everyone else was asleep that she let her tears fall in short, stifled sobs.

Her courage grew weak in the loneliness of the day and she found herself longing for Finrod, longing to run back to Nargothrond, to escape from these people who despised her, from this new station of which she knew nothing. And she even found herself longing for Celebrimbor. In a near panic she wondered if she had been wrong about everything and she grew frightened of what she had felt when Celeborn kissed her, when she thought of him. Instead she found herself longing for Celebrimbor's comforting embrace, for his kind words. She regretted that she had spurned him so cruelly, absconding with his most prized work and she shed tears for him, for the pain he had doubtlessly felt. She must have fallen asleep at last, for the next thing she recalled was being poked and prodded rather rudely.

She had been awakened from her all too short and far too restless slumber by some unpleasant sensation and, groggily, looked up through bleary eyes to see a blonde girl with a pinkish, heart shaped face staring down at her.

"She slept through the bell," one of them was saying. The voice came to her as out of a fog.

"Perhaps Noldorin girls just laze about all day, don't have no work to do." Another voice replied to the first. Someone laughed.

"Idiot," she felt fingers prodding her in the side and swatted at them, struggling to sit up.

"I heard someone say she's a princess."

"Not here she's not. This is Doriath. Noldo bitch. Where's your crown now _Galadriel_?" The pink-faced girl asked, sneering. Galadriel looked up at her, defiant, pulling her legs up to her chest. There were perhaps ten girls standing around her now but it was easy to tell that the blonde was their leader. The girl reached out and ran a hand over Galadriel's bald head, laughing. "Did he take all of it?" She asked. "What about down there?" She reached for the hem of Galadriel's nightdress and tugged. Somebody pinched her.

"Stop it!" Galadriel cried, trying to force the hem back down, but the other girls just laughed. "Stop it!" She looked around at the many other girls in the room who were getting dressed but none of them showed the slightest interest in intervening on her behalf.

"LADIES!" A commanding voice resounded through the room and they all scurried back to their respective places, leaving her alone at last though she was sure she had not seen the last of them. The room was full of neatly made beds on wooden frames, a trunk at the end of each of them and it was in front of these trunks that the girls stood, their feet tight together, backs straight, heads up, hands clasped before them. Galadriel scurried from her bed, making some brief effort to pull the sheets up, but she had no time, for the woman from whom the commanding voice had issued, a short elf with shrewd looking eyes and a small mouth, who wore her dark hair pulled tightly back in a braid, was slowly making her way down the double line of girls, checking that each of them were in order.

They were each dressed in a simple light gray, cotton underdress with long, close fitting sleeves, over which they wore sleeveless navy blue woolen gowns that looked almost like tabards, having no seams down the sides and being open instead. This outer dress had the crest of Thingol emblazoned over the left breast in silver thread and was fastened about the waist with a black leather belt.

Galadriel too moved to the end of her bed, bowing her head as what could only be the senior maid walked down the row, hands clasped behind her back, inspecting that each of the servants was suitably prepared. For most this involved nothing more than a cursory glance, however, the raven-haired, stark looking elf came to a halt before Galadriel and looked her over closely.

"You would be Galadriel," the Sinda said.

"Yes," Galadriel replied, raising her eyes to meet those of the senior maid.

"Yes Madam," the reprimand came. "I am Madam Lhaineth and I am in charge of all of the female servants of the palace. I would have you address me as is proper."

"Yes Madam," Galadriel parroted.

"Galadriel, why are you not dressed?" Madam Lhaineth asked.

"I did not have time, Madam," Galadriel replied, feeling more and more as if she had dropped into a completely foreign world.

"And is that why your bed is unmade as well?"

"Yes it is Madam Lhaineth," Galadriel said, her heart pounding. She was certain that she must be blushing a furious shade of red and she could practically feel the accusing eyes of the other girls on her.

"In the future you will take care to awake at the chime of the bells so that you can suitably prepare for the day," Madam Lhaineth instructed. "You are a servant of Doriath now and you are expected to uphold certain standards, to keep your space clean and orderly, to be dressed and neat looking by evening inspection. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madam Lhaineth," Galadriel replied.

"Then get dressed now," the chief maid instructed and Galadriel turned quickly, pulling the gray under dress on over her shift and tightening the ties then pulling the blue woolen dress on over it, fastening the black belt about her waist and slipping into her black leather shoes. They were new and the leather was still stiff. She anticipated blisters by morning. "Very good." The chief maid said as Galadriel moved to stand before her bed once more. She heard snickering but kept her focus on Madam Lhaineth. "But where is your cap?" The Sinda asked and Galadriel looked around frantically. The snickering increased.

"Girls…" Madam Lhaineth warned and the snickering subsided, though it did not stop entirely.

"I…I don't know Madam," Galadriel turned and quickly looked through her bed sheets, under her bed; the cap was nowhere to be found and she suddenly felt extremely self-conscious of her bald head.

"Well I must say you are not off to an auspicious start here, Galadriel," Madam Lhaineth said in a warning tone. "You will be issued a new cap and the cost will be deducted from your wages. I hope you have no ideas of you being treated with some special regard because you are a princess of Nargothrond. You are in Doriath now and none of that matters. Besides, you are serving a sentence for your crime so you are lucky enough to receive any payment at all. We all start from the bottom here and so will you. I hope you will endeavor to do us proud," the senior maid's voice was as stern as her face.

"Yes Madam," Galadriel replied with a slight curtsey. The maid reached out and took her chin between her strong fingers, turning her head this way and that, observing her carefully.

"Do you understand your duties?"

"No I do not," she confessed. She could feel tears threatening to rise in her eyes again. She was not sure how much more humiliation she could take. The dark-haired woman let out a displeased sigh.

"Then you shall be scrubbing floors for now, until you are able to do something more useful. If you prove adept at that I shall send you to the scullery I think." She nodded curtly to one of the other maids to step forward, which she did, coming to stand by Galadriel's side. "You will be shown your duties. Remember that your place is neither to be seen nor heard…especially looking the way that you do." She glanced at Galadriel's bald head. "If you do, by some absurd turn of events, happen to find yourself in the presence of royalty you will bow as is proper and you will neither look nor speak."

"Yes madam," Galadriel said. And with that they were off, each to their own position, and she followed the maids that she had been instructed to follow. It was not a pleasant task at all, scrubbing floors. Her hands quickly turned red and dry from the heat of water, cracking even so that blood was drawn to the surface and it left her fingernails so short that they hardly existed. The other maids refused to speak to her, except to direct her, but they at least did not make a habit of gossiping about her before her face. And, what was better, the horrid girl with the pink face was nowhere to be seen. It seemed she worked elsewhere. Without her about the other girls seemed far more reluctant to cause any trouble.

Nevertheless, Galadriel had trouble enough without them making it worse. She sighed, feeling the unbearable tenseness in her shoulders, the soreness in her bruised knees. What was more, she was not entirely healed yet from her ordeal and though the poison had, somehow miraculously, been expelled from her body, there was still an unusual weariness and weakness that seemed to reside deep within her bones. Somewhat worse, however, than the physical discomfort was the resentment burning within her heart: resentment that she had been given such a menial job, resentment that the potential she had to offer, wanted to offer to Doriath was being squandered to prove whatever point it was that Thingol wanted to prove. She knew that thought to be poisonous, yet she was unable to entirely expulse it from her mind, perhaps because she did not entirely want to, and it sat there at the back of her brain, festering.

She felt near famished by dinnertime and was happy for the food, but less so for the company, for the other girls seemed to only just barely tolerate her at their table. She glanced around, looking for familiar faces, faces she had not seen in a century, and she thought that she could pick out Galathil, Oropher, Venessiel, some of the girls she used to weave with, some of Melian's handmaidens. Thingol and Celeborn were easy enough to identify, though they were far away.

The gentle hubbub of conversation from the girls sitting around her suddenly quieted and Galadriel looked up to see that the pink-faced girl had arrived and was standing in their midst now, a sour smirk upon her face as always. She reached down, picking up Galadriel's wine glass as she stared into her eyes and, from her pocket, withdrew a maid's cap. Galadriel had no doubt that it was the one from this evening that had gone missing: hers.

"Recognize it do you?" The girl said before stuffing it into the glass full with red wine. The girl set it back down on the table. "I'm Paniel, by the way." She wrinkled her nose as if the mere presence of Galadriel made her sick.

Filled with so much anger she was hardly able to think, Galadriel shot to her feet, gritting her teeth and drawing in a deep breath. She wanted nothing more than to fight this girl openly, to force her to stop, but Paniel only stared back, tauntingly. She knew she shouldn't but she could hardly help it as she took up the cup and flung it down at Paniel's feet. It would have been better if she could have ignored her, instead, she felt as though she had given her the victory, for Paniel only smirked and said, "I'll see that I make you remember that."

Galadriel turned, wanting nothing more to do with any of them. She practically stormed through the corridors, her footfalls echoing a sharp staccato in Menegroth's halls, her heart near to bursting with fury, fury at Paniel, at the other girls, at Thingol. Punishment for a cause she could understand and she could not blame them for disliking her seeing what she had done and as even she disliked herself, but cruelty for cruelty's sake was something she could not accept and, for that reason, she cursed Thingol and Paniel both in her mind.

She hardly knew where she was going but, somehow, she found herself at the bathhouses. They had always provided her some comfort, some relief, and there was nothing her aching body and weary mind needed now more than that. Trembling, she began to strip off her clothes in the antechamber and took several deep breaths, attempting to will herself to calm down. But, as the clamor of anger began to subside in her mind, she became aware that the other women there were speaking in hushed voices to each other, casting glances her way. She did her best to ignore them, depositing her soiled dress in the laundry basket before stepping into the main part of the bathhouse.

Pretending as if she were unaware, she grabbed up the soap and moved to an unpopulated fountain where she set about scrubbing the sweat from her body. There were bruises there that had not been there in the evening, bruises on her elbows, her knees. The work was rough. She sighed but the anger was still hot in her heart and, what was more the tension lay heavy in the air, like clouds before a storm. At last she turned, padding across the mossy ground and yet, just before her toe was about to touch the water, a voice spoke.

"Don't. You'll dirty the water." Galadriel looked up, glancing around to see that every woman in the baths was staring blatantly at her. Her heart was beating like a jack rabbit's hind leg.

"I've already washed," she said in what she hoped was a confident voice.

"No," a black-haired elf said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You are a kinslayer. You're unclean. We don't want you in the water. You'll dirty it." The room was silent and Galadriel was at a loss as to what to do, looking around at all of the accusatory glares. She recognized some of the faces, old friends she had woven with once upon a time, ladies she had served beside as a handmaiden of Melian. But the queen was not there, nor the princess. In her heart she wanted to return to the fountain from which she had just come, take up the soap, and hurl it right in that black-haired elf's face, but she recalled the mistake she had made only minutes ago with Paniel.

She could feel the hot flush rising to her face once more and hot tears gathering in her eyes but she had not the courage to say anything in her defense and, what was more, she felt she deserved no defense, and so instead she turned and fled the baths, nearly running back to the changing room and slipping into the same uniform she had just taken off.

She returned to the abandoned servants' quarters where she sobbed and beat her pillow, cursing Thingol, cursing Paniel, cursing herself, cursing the Valar, and, when she had finished, she sat up, putting pen to paper, and at last began a letter to Finrod, a letter he would have been expecting long ago. But, after she had written for a few moments, she balled up the paper. It would not do to make him worry. Breathing deeply she began again.

_My dearest brother,_

_I hope that my letter finds you well and I pray that you will excuse the tardiness with which I write to you. I assure you that it was not my intent and I beg your forgiveness for having given you cause to worry. I assure you that it was for no ill reason, but only because I am so very busy here in Menegroth that I hardly have a spare moment, even for those I love best…_

*****

The arrow flew straight and true, striking home with a loud thwack into the center of the straw target several hundred yards away. Thingol watched it quivering there until it stilled and turned with a satisfied look towards his nephew, who was stretching his right arm after having taken the shot.

"Not bad for being out of practice," he commented with a laugh. Celeborn was startled by the King's voice, for he had not known that his uncle had approached.

"Who says I'm out of practice?" The prince asked, turning towards his uncle with a grin.

"Here, give it to me," Thingol said, unbuttoning his tunic and sliding it off of his left arm before taking the bow from his nephew. Celeborn handed him an arrow and the king nocked it as he took his stance, sighting the target down the long line of the arrow. Slowly he breathed in then out and the arrow flew straight, splitting his nephew's arrow clean in half. With a wordless smile, Celeborn reached out for the bow again and Thingol passed it to him.

"How have you been?" Thingol asked and Celeborn's face darkened.

"Do you not think that question long overdue?" He asked his uncle, nocking another arrow, letting it fly. "Why do you only care now?"

"Forgive me," Thingol said. "I ought to have asked you earlier."

"Yes," Celeborn said sharply, turning towards his uncle. "You should have."

Thingol looked towards the target, noting that his nephew's arrow had cut his own completely in half. Celeborn always fought best when he was angry, as Thingol well knew. But his nephew sighed and the anger seemed to drain out of him.

"In truth," Thingol said, "I had hoped that you would come to me." The King moved to sit on the fence, facing his nephew and Celeborn cast his eyes down, fiddling with his bow for a moment before setting it aside.

"Why?" The Prince asked and Thingol shrugged.

"I know that you like to think that you have everything under control," the King said, "but there is no shame in asking for help, Celeborn, no weakness in feeling sad, in hurting. It is only natural, after all, and matters of the heart can be very complicated indeed. I would hope that…if you are ever troubled over something you know you can come to me."

Celeborn fidgeted, shaking his head and tucking his hands in the pockets of his breeches. He left them there for a second before removing them once again only to tuck them back in a moment later. He seemed quite uncomfortable with the entire situation, which did not surprise Thingol; his nephew, who was so outspoken otherwise, had always had great difficulty discussing matters of the heart.

"Are you…upset that she has returned?" The King asked gently, hoping to set Celeborn more at ease by initiating the conversation. His nephew shook his head and sighed.

"No, no, not now, I don't think. At first I was though, angry about it I mean." He crossed his arms over his chest. "But I…I suppose I am glad that she has recovered. I wouldn't wish ill upon her."

"You don't understand how you feel," Thingol said and it seemed to have been the right thing to say because he could see some of the tension drain away and Celeborn seemed to relax a bit.

"That is, I suppose, what has been bothering me most of all," Celeborn said. "Sometimes I am simply numb, at others furiously angry, and sometimes I feel as though I am in terrible pain. I hate being so…so unstable."

"Yet you are doing much better than you were a century ago, even ten years ago," Thingol said. "Indeed, I thought I saw a marked improvement upon your return from Nargothrond." Celeborn nodded.

"Yes, I think so," he said. "There is something to be said after all for confronting an issue head on." They sat in silence for a few moments.

"I know that it seems that it will never pass," Thingol said gently, "but it will. I promise you."

"What would you know of it? I cannot imagine you loving anyone but Melian," Celeborn said with a small laugh. Thingol smiled.

"I've had my fair share of heart breaks as well," he replied. "And to tell you the truth, it only served to make me all the happier when I finally met your aunt. It is painful, yes, but it can strengthen you, if you will let it. Do you still love her?" It was a difficult question and it was some time before Celeborn was able to reply.

"I…I don't know," he said. "But I know that I do not trust her, that I cannot and it seems to me that love can probably not exist without trust."

"Yes, that is the heart of it," Thingol replied, clasping his hands in his lap.

"She…she frustrates me something terribly," Celeborn burst out. "She says she has come here to make amends, to heal the rift between our peoples, and yet it was so obvious that she resents you for the punishment she is subject to."

"Yes well, that was always my primary complaint against her: pride," said Thingol. "But I would not judge her so terribly harshly, Celeborn. There is much about Doriath that she does not yet know and thus she does not understand, entirely, what I have done. Hopefully she will persevere and if she does not then we will know that she is not worth our time. But I would beg you give her the benefit of the doubt. Making a decision such as she has done is one thing, finding the strength to carry through with it is another. She is an extraordinarily courageous young person."

The king stood and took up Celeborn's bow, reaching for an arrow from his nephew's quiver. Turning, he sighted it and let it fly, where it landed in the middle of the target. "Three silver pieces that you cannot split my arrow." He said, placing the coins in a stack upon the fence post.

"Three that I can," Celeborn said with a smile, removing the coins from his pocket and stacking them next to Thingol's.

"I look forward to it." Thingol said with a smile, watching his nephew carefully.

Celeborn drew, breathing out and letting the arrow fly. It missed its mark, landing beside the sandwiched arrows.

"My thanks nephew," Thingol said, handily pocketing the coins.

"So that's why you're here, to steal my money," Celeborn grinned.

"Celeborn," Thingol said, "if you do not wish her to have any control over you anymore then you must forgive her; it is the only way. What is more, she needs your forgiveness too. Do not let the anger and pain eat away at you, do not hide from it. Embrace it and you will be free of it. Make your peace with her. An ability to forgive is a rare but crucial quality in a king."

"I do not wish to be a king," Celeborn grinned, shaking his head.

"And yet you will be, else you would not have been born with that hair," Thingol said.

"That is chance, not destiny," Celeborn replied scoffing. Thingol's words brought back darker memories, memories of the prophecy he had heard in his mind when Galadriel had first come to Menegroth.

"Oh? Silver haired children are not often born. Aside from Cirdan and Myself there is only you. Your brother, even my own daughter, are black of hair. Silver is the mark of a Sindarin king."

"Nothing but old wives tales," Celeborn scoffed cheerfully and Thingol laughed.

"Oft it may chance, nephew, that old wives keep in memory things that were once needful for the wise to know. Do not ignore them." And having so said he took his leave but Celeborn sat there still for many hours, pondering what his uncle had said and considering what was in his own heart before he too stood and quit that place.

*****

Galadriel did not return to the baths, though they had been one of her most favorite of Menegroth's features. Instead, she settled for buckets and sponges and the complete lack of privacy of the servants' quarters.

Yet, despite the unpleasantness, she quickly became adjusted to the new tasks, what she could not become adjusted to was the unpleasantness of the other servants. There were small things: when they would kick over a bucket of soot she had just collected or kick her scrub brush away just to spite her. But Paniel was a different story and, as she had promised, she had not forgotten Galadriel's slight, nor had she forgiven it.

At first Galadriel had assumed that she shared the same prejudices as everyone else, having judged her for her part in the kinslaying, yet with most of the others, though that condemnation remained, they at least grew used to her enough that they could work alongside her without antagonizing her after a few years. It was a matter of practicality after all, and refusing to communicate with someone you worked with was the height of impracticality. Paniel, however, showed no signs of relenting and, indeed, the longer that Galadriel was present, the worse she seemed to grow until, eventually, Galadriel felt that she had not choice but to address the issue.

It was something she was loathe to do, for she felt that things would certainly not be decided in her favor, and yet they were coming to such a point that she was nearly unable to complete her tasks or get on with her work due to Paniel's malicious meddling. What was more, when she had first set out from Nargothrond she had decided that she would make her own decisions, that she would not allow others to walk on her anymore in the manner that she had allowed her cousins to do. It was an easy thing to decide but a harder thing to accomplish. And that was the reason that she stood here now, rapping upon Madame Lhaineth's door.

"Ah yes, Galadriel," Madam Lhaineth said, opening the door herself before resuming her seat behind her desk. The room had a slightly cramped feel to it, though it was spartanly furnished. She appeared to have been reading some news bulletin and glanced over it once more before setting it aside and sighing as she looked up. "Well come in girl, and don't leave the door hanging open," she instructed and Galadriel stepped obediently inside, closing the door behind her before she took a seat in one of the chairs before the chief maid's desk.

"You said earlier this evening that you wanted to speak to me?" Madam Lhaineth surveyed Galadriel through suspicious eyes. One could not call her unfair, for she did not seem to take an interest in any of the girls in particular, but it was no secret that she bore no great love for Galadriel, or anyone else who disturbed her carefully constructed and neurotically maintained order. Galadriel's continuous run ins with Paniel had certainly not endeared herself to her superior and Madam Lhaineth kept a careful record of each incident in her mind.

"Yes, Madam," Galadriel replied politely, careful to sit up straight and fold her hands properly in her lap. Madam Lhaineth was the sort of elf who placed a great deal of emphasis on propriety and the opinions of others.

"Well then, what is it?" The dark-haired Sinda sounded a bit impatient, pursing her small, thin lips.

"I am sure you are aware of the trouble that I have had with Paniel," Galadriel began and Madam Lhaineth's face turned a bit sour. The Noldo licked her lips nervously. "Well, the truth of the matter is that she is continually attacking me or provoking me and it is making it very difficult for me to do my work. If she were able to be stopped I believe that I could be much more productive." She lapsed into silence, feeling as though she had not quite expressed herself as well as she had hoped.

Madam Lhaineth sighed, looking at Galadriel from beneath dark brows with the same sort of attitude that a parent might take with a disobedient elfling. She crossed her arms over her chest. "And you expect that I will do something about that?" She asked.

"Seeing as how the incidents are occurring during work and as how we are both employed by the crown then yes, that is what I believe would be appropriate," Galadriel said, perhaps a bit more indignantly than she had intended, for she was already quite perturbed by Madam Lhaineth's clear desire to wash her hands of the entire affair despite the fact that she was the only one who had any real power to do anything about it. Madam Lhaineth sighed as though Galadriel was a mere annoyance who was keeping her from more important matters.

"Galadriel, I do not make a policy around here of getting involved with personal matters."

"It is hardly a personal matter!" Galadriel exclaimed. "It is a work matter."

"If you and Paniel have some issue with each other, which clearly you do, then I expect that you will solve it yourselves," Madam Lhaineth replied, picking up her news bulletin again although it seemed she had little interest in that either. "You are both adults. Do not make it my problem." Galadriel stared angrily at the backside of Madam Lhaineth's newspaper. She failed to see how the price of fish was of greater concern than the matter she had brought before her.

"But," she began to protest.

"That will be all, I think, Galadriel," Madam Lhaineth said, not even bothering to look up from her paper.

"Madam Lhaineth!" Galadriel exclaimed.

"I said that will be all," the Sinda gave Galadriel a stern look over the top of her paper. Galadriel collected her wits and then stood, giving her superior a quick bow.

"Yes Madam," she replied politely before slipping from the room, frustration boiling within her heart.


	20. Prodigal Children

  
**Prodigal Children**

In Cavern's Shade: 20th Chapter

*****

"So hope for a great sea-change  
On the far side of revenge.  
Believe that a further shore  
Is reachable from here.  
Believe in miracles  
And cures and healing wells."

– Seamus Heaney

*****

Galadriel's days were spent in silence, with hardly anything but her own thoughts for company, for it seemed that no one wished to speak to her and, even if there were any who were willing, they dared not speak for fear that they might be ostracized for doing so. The only words that she heard of late were commands and the only words she heard concerning herself were decidedly negative and often spoken just loudly enough to ensure that she would hear them.

However, despite the problems that she faced and despite her indignation at having been reduced to such a menial position, Galadriel could never have been called anything less than diligent and, through her hard work she managed to move from scrubbing floors and cleaning fireplaces to a position as a scullery maid and, at last, managed to attain a somewhat better post as a junior laundress. The one, and very significant downside to this was that Paniel was a senior laundress and Galadriel now spent nearly every day in close proximity to her.

The conflicts between the two had not stopped, in fact, Galadriel very much thought that Paniel seemed to continually be trying to outdo herself, to think of some new and even more wretched way to torment her. Once, after Paniel had managed to slip a red shirt into a pile of white ones that Galadriel was laundering, she had turned to the girl who usually washed beside her, a girl with long, straight black hair. "Someone ought to teach her a lesson," Galadriel had said out of frustration, more to vent the thought than out of a hope that the other girl cared to listen.

But the other girl had snorted softly with restrained laughter. "Then do it," she had replied.

Although working alongside Paniel was a serious detriment, working in the laundries did have advantages. Seeing as they were so very close to the bathhouses, Galadriel was now carefully able to observe when they were full and when they were deserted, enabling her to slip into them from time to time when no one was there, which was usually during the day, when the vast majority of the Sindar were asleep. Slipping into the dressing rooms, she quickly removed her blue woolen gown and her apron, depositing them in a basket, noting to her great relief that all of the other baskets were empty this day. The place was deserted then. Silently she thanked the Valar for this small mercy.

Entering the baths themselves, she moved to wash in the fountains, surreptitiously glancing up to make sure that the rooms really were empty. It was pleasant, she thought, to be able to be here without unwelcoming eyes upon her. Having scrubbed and washed, she padded across the mossy floor and slipped into one of the larger pools, feeling the water's warm embrace on her skin, and smiled as she looked up at the elegant ceiling from which the gentle morning light of the sun shone down. The sky was a crisp, perfect blue this day. She closed her eyes and ducked beneath the surface for a moment before coming up to rest her arms on the edge of the pool, brushing her hair back from her face.

The past few years had been extraordinarily difficult for her. Never had she been in the midst of so many people and yet felt so completely alone. She had known that she would be shunned and she had mentally prepared herself for it, but that did not make it any easier to endure and Paniel certainly made it a good deal more difficult. She sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She was sure she would be tired next evening when her shift started from having stayed up so late into the day, however, it was worth it if she was able to use the baths during the day without suffering any abuse.

From Nargothrond she had been unable to fully comprehend the damage that she had caused but now she was so very aware. And though she was determined to right her wrongs as best as she was able, to be of some service, she still felt a pang of petty anger at Thingol for having done his best to place her somewhere where she could do nothing of any significance. And yet it was not all worthless, for the truth of the matter was that though she was too proud to admit it to anyone, she had come not only to make her home here, but because she was unable to live with herself and the wrong that she had done. She was determined to change herself, for Doriath's sake, for Finrod's sake, for her own sake. It was already proving to be a more painful and arduous process than she had anticipated and her pride warred with her heart.

Uncurling her legs from her chest, she sank into the water up to her neck, feeling the heat relaxing the tension that she constantly carried in her shoulders. It had been no accident that in the 20 years since she had arrived in Menegroth she had not encountered Celeborn even once, for that had been a trial of the heart for which she was unprepared and so she had been careful to avoid him, not that that was particularly hard seeing as he did not associate with laundresses. He, she knew, was probably avoiding her for the same reason. She loved him still, she loved him deeply and yet she knew in her heart, just as he must, that it was better that things were finished between them.

A noise startled her, and she looked up to see the Lady Venessiel slipping into the water opposite her. "Good evening," she said politely, noticing that Galadriel had taken note of her entrance and the Noldo was surprised not only to be greeted so cordially, but also that anyone would deign to bathe with her. It aroused her suspicions and she felt a flash of irrational anger.

"Here to ridicule me?" Galadriel asked. The response had become a reflex. It was an uncharitable thing to say, she knew, but she was not feeling very friendly of late given the way that she was constantly treated, especially when she used the baths, and while she was absent from Menegroth Venessiel had married Oropher who, along with Saeros, had always been one of those who had chiefly opposed the building of Nargothrond and any association of the Sindar with the Noldor.

"I would beg you not assume that my husband's opinions are my own," the dark-haired Sinda retorted, furrowing her brow in irritation. Galadriel remained silent, duly chastised. They sat in silence for a long while and then Venessiel spoke again, her voice echoing in the empty chamber.

"Doesn't wash off does it?" She asked and Galadriel looked up, startled. "What you've done," she said, "it doesn't wash off, at least not in your eyes. You still see the blood on your hands whenever you look at them. But I bet you tried, didn't you, to cleanse yourself of it."

"What would you know of that and what right have you to comment upon it?" Galadriel said, bristling, for she could not imagine that the Sindarin noblewoman could have any intent other than a malicious one, though she had said otherwise. It was no secret that she and Venessiel had never borne each other any fondness, though they did not know each other well.

"We've all done it," Venessiel shrugged. "Everyone likes to act all high and mighty and pure but we have all done things we are not proud of. And, what is more, sometimes in the course of our duties we must make choices that inadvertently affect who lives and dies, who prospers and suffers. When I allocated the funds to your brother to found Nargothrond I knew there would be effects, some good and some bad. Even now, the council continually delays while our citizens in the North perish and suffer from the policies of your cousin Maedhros. Still, they like to talk in terms of black and white, but sometimes it is really a matter of choosing what seems to be the lesser of two evils and hoping beyond hope that you chose correctly. What you've done…not that is wasn't bad, because it was, but it isn't so very different from all of that; and if they're accusing you of having kept secrets…well you are most probably more innocent than any one of the King's ministers" And Galadriel, finding kindness where she had expected scorn, did not quite know what to say.

"I…I…" Galadriel stammered. "Why would you be kind to me?" She asked at last, for that was the true question that was on her mind.

Venessiel laughed and there was even something in her laugh that was fascinating; she was a woman you could not take your eyes from and it was not only because she was beautiful. "Did Celeborn lead you to believe that I am cruel?" She asked and Galadriel said nothing, for she would have had to admit that while Celeborn had never said anything very negative regarding his previous lover, he also made it clear that she irked him. It had, perhaps, created a deeper impression upon Galadriel than she had believed.

"There are as many points of view and versions of the truth as there are elves," Venessiel said then. "Perhaps Celeborn is justified in whatever he has said about me, but I have my complaints as well and who can truthfully say which of us is more correct or evaluate such a thing without bias? We are all playing at the same game after all, no matter how much we might try to deny it, and if you are not discerning then you shall certainly lose." Galadriel merely nodded, not quite understanding what the King's counselor meant or why she would tell her, of all people.

"Oh dear, I am sorry," Venessiel said then, leaning forward. "I didn't mean to bring up old wounds. What I'm trying to say is, don't let them get you so very down about it. We've all made mistakes and maybe that's why they took it so badly with you. It can be a difficult thing to see yourself in someone else's downfall."

"It's quite alright," Galadriel assured her.

The King's minister stood, stretched, and wrung out her long dark hair. "Well then," she said, laughing again, "it has been a long evening indeed and I should return to my husband ere noon draws nigh lest he begin to worry. I bid you a good day Galadriel."

"My Lady," Galadriel called confused, rising from the water as Venessiel made to leave. "Why…why have you been so pleasant to me?"

"Does one need a reason for pleasantness?" Venesiel laughed, a twinkle in her eye, and then she said, "for many reasons, and I have already told you what they are." And Galadriel sank back into the water, marveling that someone would have sympathy for her plight and marveling even more that such sympathy had come from one of such high standing. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps there was a way out of this drudgery.

"Celeborn, you mad bastard," Beleg whispered as he sat down with the long-awaited beer, still frothing at the top in its icy cold tankards, "will you stop staring at them like that? Saeros won't pick a fight but Oropher will!"

Galathil reached out to take a mug, sipping at the cold foam, as Beleg passed the other to Celeborn. "Blocking my vote for years and years," Celeborn grumbled. "I wish that politics were more like war."

"Why? So you could gut him and be done with it?" Beleg murmured.

"Politics are worse than war," Galathil quipped.

"That is exactly what I mean," Celeborn said and the three of them turned to glance briefly across the tavern at a table where Oropher, Saeros, Thaudir, who was one of the younger minstrels, and several others sat laughing and joking. "It doesn't make any sense," the high prince grumbled. "How can he be so violently against the Noldor and yet be so ardently opposed to stopping Maedhros's expansion into our northern cities."

"Because he doesn't care at all about what's right and what's wrong. You can't argue logic with someone who defies it, Celeborn. He's a ladder-climbing snake and he has been since day one. There is no changing him. He wants to be the most respected councilor, he wants to be the ear of Thingol and the hand too, he wants to be a great vizier and to rise as high as he can rise, and higher if he gets the chance," Beleg whispered. "He sees that you've taken a little tumble and he's trying his hardest to steal your horse ere you can get back in the saddle. Don't concern yourself with people like him. No one is fooled. Everyone knows that your love lies with Doriath. Everyone knows you are doing the right thing and they trust you, not him."

"Not everyone. He holds much sway," Celeborn remarked, however, a swallow of the ice cold beer did a good deal to ease his tension.

"You sound paranoid, like Uncle," said Galathil, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"He is powerful. But you are more powerful still." Beleg said. "You are a Prince of Doriath, blood of Thingol's blood. Climb as high as he might he will never be as you. What can he do? You led our people to victory at the Battle of Beleriand and you have done much good for them. They have not forgotten it."

"He's just compensating because he's a Nando," Galathil remarked.

"There's no shame in being a Nando," Celeborn replied.

"No. But he thinks there is," Galathil said. "He has a very jealous temperament."

"And yet he refused to help Amdir, to help the Avari," Celeborn grumbled.

"There are always hierarchies, even amongst minorities," Beleg cautioned. "Saeros would probably have metaphorically stabbed Denethor in the back at some point or another, if the orcs hadn't done it literally. He's the kind that can't stand to be anything less than a king."

"King? He'd rather be a god," Galathil murmured with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

"He has no chance of becoming either," Celeborn said. "Though that shall not quench his ambition. Perhaps that is what irks him so." The conversation lapsed into silence, for they were very conspicuous, speaking in hushed voices as they were, and Saeros and Oropher were beginning to take note.

"What exactly is going on at Himring anyway?" Beleg asked curiously, changing the subject. "I have heard so many things that I cannot be sure what the truth of the matter is. It has been a while since I was back in Menegroth."

"It's been going on for a while now. Maedhros and Maglor's people have discovered veins of gold in the mountain and are cutting the forest down in order to dig mines there, which wouldn't be a problem ordinarily, except that they are clear-cutting the trees, so when the heavy rains come in the spring the trunks wash down the mountain and there are terrible mudslides as well."

"Well that is very troublesome indeed," Beleg said with a furrowed brow, "and dangerous, I would think. I have not been in that region in a while but I would like to go so that I can see the state of things for myself."

"Some of our people have been killed," Celeborn said with a nod. "And many more have had their homes and businesses destroyed."

"Have they sent no word to Maedhros?" Galathil asked.

"They have sent letters," Celeborn said, "which have been ignored. But they are frightened of the Noldor and dare not venture into the fortress at Himring itself. They have many superstitions regarding them and it seems that news of my and Luthien's disastrous trip to Himlad has become common knowledge."

"Ah," Beleg grunted. "No wonder they are frightened."

"It was foolish indeed, going there," Celeborn murmured. "We could not foresee the repercussions of our actions."

Beleg grunted in response. "I hope it would not be misconstrued as treason if I were to say that isolation of a kingdom is not a very good means of obtaining information about one's enemies and in my experience the best way of defeating one's adversaries is to know every bit about them. The girl…Galadriel… could have been an ally, easily turned."

"Not treason, no," Celeborn said in reply to his friend and the rest of the conversation lay in the silence between them.

"But I have heard that Maedhros and Maglor are far more reasonable than their younger brothers," Galathil said, interrupting what lay unspoken.

"And I have heard that too," Celeborn replied. "But that doesn't make our people on the frontier any less frightened of them. They are not aware of the goings on in Menegroth, or of our politics. They only know that their families and friends are suffering and that Maedhros's people are causing it. That is enough reason for them to be frightened, and enough reason for them to grow angrier with Menegroth with each passing year."

"Seeing as it is an international matter rather than a domestic one, Uncle can't do much about it without the council's approval though can he?" Galathil asked. Celeborn shook his head.

"And neither can I."

"Perhaps that is his aim," Beleg said, jerking his head subtly towards Saeros. "He wants you to back off so that he can step in and solve the problem. Then he'll look like the hero and gain all of the favor."

"He ought to know by now that I don't back off," Celeborn said with a grin and Beleg laughed.

"Sometimes it would be better if you did," Galathil grumbled into his beer foam.

"You know I would go to Himring with you if it would do anything," Beleg said.

"You have my thanks, my friend," Celeborn said, "but I fear there is very little we can do without the majority support of the council. If I only had one or two more members of the council who were loyal to my position then I might be able to swing the vote. Yet in recent years, particularly after the news of the kinslaying, there are many who prefer a policy of total isolation, even if it is at the expense of the lives of our people at the borders of the girdle. As the matter stands, there is little I can do."

"But perhaps that is not entirely true," Beleg replied. "For it may be that we cannot do anything as representatives of the crown, but that does not mean that we have no power as private citizens. I think that perhaps there is something we might be able to do, for I have an old friend in that region that could help. But first, let me write her a letter and discern the truth of the matter."

"If you think that would help then I should be very glad for it," Celeborn said, sounding a bit more hopeful.

"Well then, no use worrying over it now. Let us have another beer and speak of more pleasant matters!" Beleg said, standing to fetch three more beers. And it was then that a great roar of laughter rose up from one of the other tables, laughter that Celeborn recognized as Saeros's. As he had his back to them he could not see them and he did not care to turn and look, but he saw Galathil, sitting across from him where he could easily see them, swallow rather hard.

"Are they talking about me?" Celeborn asked with a steely glare at his brother.

"Well, they're planning on something," Galathil said. "And I wager it is nothing good and I would further wager that, yes, it has something or other to do with you."

"In that case I shall take my leave," Celeborn murmured with a grin, rising from the table and slapping his brother on the shoulder, "lest I do something foolish I shall regret."

"You never did know when to hold your tongue or your fists," Galathil laughed. Celeborn glanced over to where Beleg was standing, flirting with the tavern keeper's daughter, the three freshly poured beers forgotten beside him.

"Make sure you give this to him," Celeborn said, setting a stack of copper coins down on the table. "I won't have him paying for my part of the beer again. I owe him too much as it is." And with that he turned and made his exit.

"He has a hard time letting go doesn't he," Beleg said with a laugh as he returned to the table, the beers in hand.

"He's always been that way," Galathil said and in his voice was both humor and sadness, neither greater than the other.

*****

In the years after she had spoken to Venessiel, Galadriel spent a good deal of time pondering her words and, while she very much appreciated that the Sinda had had the decency to speak to her, she could not quite believe it to be genuine, wondering what other motive the minister of finance might have, even as she wondered how she had come to be so distrusting of others and whether or not that distrust was merited.

Then again, she supposed with a quiet sigh as she carefully folded the laundry, perhaps that was not so surprising given her family. The whole lot of them were untrustworthy. She almost smiled at the thought and her thoughts turned towards Finrod. Sometimes his letters were all that sustained her when things became difficult here.

And then she had had news from Angrod as well. He always kept her abreast of matters with him and Aegnor, and of Orodreth and his new baby girl, Finduilas. Galadriel marveled that she was now a great aunt and the thought brought a true smile to her face. It seems I am destined to become an old maid, she thought. The thought did not bother her now as it might have once upon a time. Instead, she found it rather amusing. Perhaps, she thought, when I have made things right I might be able to have them come for a visit and then I could see her. Angrod swore up and down that his granddaughter was the spitting image of his sister.

"Mind your business," she heard the sharp and familiar voice say behind, accompanied by an elbow in her ribs. Paniel's intrusion upon such rare and pleasant thoughts was particularly unwelcome and Galadriel looked up, glaring at her.

"I am minding my business," she said, pointing to the neatly folded stacks of clothing that she had nearly finished.

"Are you?" Paniel sneered before reaching out and sweeping the piles of clothes to the ground, stomping on them. "Oh dear, looks like you've soiled them. Better wash them again." Galadriel was bristling in anger now, red in the face, standing with her hands clenched at her sides. It was the closest she had ever gotten to striking the other woman and she was not sure why now, out of all the times that Paniel had been so horrid to her, she most wanted to put her in her place. Perhaps it was because she had just had good news and Paniel had spoiled it. Perhaps it was because she was less tolerant of such overtures since Venessiel had showed her some kindness and sympathy. Or, perhaps it was just because her long tried patience was at last wearing dangerously thin.

"Pick it up," Paniel said.

"I won't," Galadriel replied, staring back with eyes equally as cold as her adversary's.

Paniel merely stood there, staring at her, her arms crossed over her chest as though she wanted to see what Galadriel would do about it. And she might very well have had words with her, or even come to blows, if it had not been for one of the other laundresses, a rather young looking elf with long, wildly-curly hair the color of an acorn who slowly bent down and began to gather the spilled laundry with a hesitant look on her face as though she wished to help but very much feared being chastised for it.

She was right to worry for Paniel snapped at her almost immediately. "Leave it, Bainwen." And the brown-haired girl set the laundry back down, dropped her eyes to the ground, and scurried away.

"Losing control of them, Paniel?" Galadriel asked, but the malice had gone from her voice for the girl's brief interruption had given her a chance to stifle her anger, if only a bit.

"Do you think that if you challenge me that I will stop?" Paniel hissed. "Do you think that is all it takes, one person standing up to someone? Do you understand why I am the way that I am?" Paniel asked. "It is very simple and I will explain it to you. I am the way that I am because I enjoy being that way. I do the things that I do to you because I like it. I fight because I am good at fighting. When you mess with people like me, Galadriel, we don't stop, we just come back with a bigger knife. You don't know what this city is like. All you've done is associate with the upper crust. Well, you're in the underbelly of this city now with us common folk and you had better learn to play by our rules or things will end very ill for you."

She looked hard into Galadriel's eyes for a moment silently, clearly cross, her nostrils flared and a particularly nasty look flashed upon her face before she turned and stalked away. Rolling her eyes and groaning, Galadriel bent to pick up the now soiled clothes that had only a few moments ago been perfectly clean, and piled them back into her basket before tucking it on her hip, going to wash them again. The added work had made her late for dinner, which made her cross, and that, in turn, had caused her to be rather late in returning to the servants' quarters. Indeed, by the time that she had bathed she practically had to sprint back so that she would not miss curfew and be locked out.

Yet, she found little relief in having arrived on time, for she had no sooner entered than she discerned that Paniel was up to something malicious. She tried her best to ignore her, for her temper was still running high from earlier and she did not doubt that she would do something she would regret if provoked, but she could not help but cast a glance towards where Paniel was sitting on her bed with a large group of girls gathered around her. Some of them looked as though they were openly delighting in whatever it was she was up to while others looked as though they would rather not be involved at all but had little choice in the matter.

Galadriel sighed, looking away and shaking her head as she moved to her own bed, taking the key from around her neck to open her trunk but, when she bent down to open it, however, she found that the lock had been broken and, horrified, she threw it open, searching through the contents. And, just as she began to discover what it was that was missing, Paniel raised her voice as though she had been waiting for this moment, had been waiting for Galadriel to return, waiting for her to realize what she had taken.

"…I was, of course, very worried that things would go poorly between you and Celeborn upon your return to Menegroth so perhaps it is a blessing that he has not approached you. After all, wounds of the heart take a very long time to heal, if they ever do heal completely, and we ever after bear their scars upon our souls. I have no doubt that, even if he denies it, Celeborn still suffers from the love he bore you, just as you still suffer the loss of his love."

"Stop it," Galadriel hissed, turning towards Paniel, balling her fists at her sides, shaking with rage. "Those are private letters from my brother. They are personal property. You have no right…" But Paniel interrupted her.

"But this is my favorite part," she sneered and continued to read. Galadriel looked with horror at the pile of letters in her lap, all opened. How many had she read? "Well do I know your pain, for my heart still cries out for Amarie and I know not how I can survive the trials that doubtlessly lie before me without her here by my side. I have tried to consult with Angrod on the matter seeing as how Eldalótë remained behind but he will say nothing of the matter.I hope, therefore, that you will not blame me if I say that I look upon the prospect of traveling to Mandos's halls with some sort of anticipation that others might call perverse, for I can think of no other way that I might possibly be able to return to her side. And, though she may not ever wish to speak to me again, and how justified she would be if it were so, I think that death is a fair price to pay to look upon her but one more time."

"Stop it!" Galadriel cried, tears brimming in her eyes.

"You never said anything about it," Paniel said, looking up, and Galadriel was grateful, at least, that she had stopped reading the letters. "You never told us you were Prince Celeborn's lover." Some of the girls laughed. "Pity they aren't written in Quenya, then I could have had you accused of treason."

"It isn't your business," Galadriel replied.

"Did you really ever think a Sinda could love a Noldo?" Paniel sneered. "You are nothing to us. I'm sure he must only have been using you. You were his plaything, his whore. You meant nothing to him and then he cast you aside. My, you are even more pathetic than I thought!" More laughter.

"Shut up," Galadriel ground out from clenched teeth. "You don't know anything about him. You don't know anything about me." She could feel a vein throbbing in her forehead, could feel her heart beating as though it wanted to escape her chest, and she was trembling in rage, trying to restrain herself from rushing at Paniel and hitting her.

"But the most pathetic thing of all is your brother," Paniel continued.

"You may talk about me all you wish," Galadriel said, "but you will say nothing of Finrod." Paniel paid her no mind.

"He wants to commit suicide!" Paniel laughed. "Who ever heard of one of the Eldar wishing for death! Then again, it isn't as if there would be anyone to mourn him, a kinslayer, a liar, a traitor…" She doubtlessly had more to say, but Galadriel's fist in her jaw prevented her from saying it. She had practically launched herself across the room before landing a solid punch to Paniel's face. The other girls shrieked, diving out of the way, and Galadriel took some momentary pleasure in realizing how false their loyalty to the pink-faced girl was for they no sooner defended Paniel than they had Galadriel.

Galadriel's mind seemed to have gone completely white and she could feel her heart beating fast as a hammer, pumping blood through her body, pumping the desire to fight, to injure, through her with it. She fisted her hand in Paniel's hair and slammed her head into the bedpost before the other girl was able to get her bearings. She was vaguely conscious of the other girl's screaming and then Paniel was clawing at her face, throwing her to the ground. They wrestled for a moment.

"You bitch!" Paniel was shrieking. "You fucking kinslayer! Going to kill me too are you?"

"Maybe I should!" Galadriel was shouting back, unthinking. Paniel landed a solid punch to her ribs that knocked the air from her and then she tore at Galadriel's hair, ripping it out in chunks. Galadriel managed to turn the tables, pinning Paniel down, and began to strike her across the face but then someone was pulling at her, grabbing her arms even as she attempted to continue hitting the Sinda, tearing her off of the other girl.

"Galadriel! Galadriel!" It was Madam Lhaineth's voice. But Galadriel was taller than all of them and stronger besides by virtue of her Noldorin blood and she would have managed to shake Madam Lhaineth off if the other girls had not at last come to their senses, doing their best to restrain both of them.

"Galadriel!" She could see Madam Lhaineth's face before her now, even though her mind was clouded with rage. "Galadriel! You will stop this this instant! And that goes for you too Paniel!" Madam Lhaineth cried, furious. Galadriel was still breathing in great gasps but at that moment it was as though a dam had broken inside of her and the tears poured forth, streaming angrily down her face as she choked out hoarse cries of despair and Paniel merely sneered at her through her broken lip. Galadriel wanted to smash Paniel's face into the ground until it was red and bleeding and raw, until she stopped speaking, stopped moving, stopped breathing. Gradually the other girls began to loosen their hold.

"What is the meaning of this?" Madam Lhaineth cried, looking from one to the other. "I will have the both of you punished as severely as I am able!" And Galadriel's mind revolted against the notion, for she had been through punishment enough and she would endure no more. Breaking free of the elves who had restrained her, she made for her bed, pulling her spear from beneath it and throwing off the leather guard from the blade. There was a collective gasp and she turned to see, to her satisfaction, that all of them had frozen in fear.

"Leave me alone," she said firmly, still shaking. No one made any moves towards her. "Leave me alone," she repeated, "I am going. Don't follow me." And with that she slipped through the doors and out into the corridor.

Galadriel stormed through the daylit hallways of Menegroth, her spear clutched tightly in her sweating and still trembling hand. And she was lucky indeed that it was so late in the morning or the halls would have been more densely populated and she would doubtlessly have been stopped for carrying an unsheathed weapon in a public place. As it was, luck was with her, and she encountered hardly anyone. Her knuckles were sore from having hit Paniel. She cared not at all that it was past her curfew, nor that Madam Laineth would doubtlessly be furious with her, nor even that she might lose her job and incur some more terrible punishment. She could not stand to be in that room and she could not stand to be anywhere near them, any of them. She sobbed still, reaching up to wipe the tears away, her heart heavy with sadness about the things they had said about Finrod. They don't understand. They don't understand any of it! They don't understand what it is like to live with that guilt every moment of every day!

She had believed that there might be some good she could do here, that there could possibly be a way to heal the rift between her people and the Sindar, that perhaps she could serve Thingol in some useful capacity but in light of the constant problems she was faced with all of those hopes seemed rather infantile and she felt stupid, oh so very stupid for having entertained them in the first place. She had thought that Thingol could be reasoned with, that they might have a mutually beneficial relationship, at least that she could make things between her and Celeborn right. And yet, everyone she had previously known avoided her as though she were practically an orc.

Most of all what bothered her was that she felt as though she were letting everyone down. She had fulfilled none of the oaths she had made and, what was worse, she did not even know where to begin. Yes, she had given Thingol the Elessar, and the coins, and the information about the dwarves and all for naught, it had had no effect whatsoever. It had helped no one. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to relieve some of the anger that threatened to overwhelm her, but it did no good.

She was glad they had pulled her off of Paniel. She wasn't sure what she would have done otherwise, how far she would have gone. She still wanted to hit something, or someone, to fight. She had almost wanted to kill. She knew she was capable of it. Venessiel had been right; it didn't wash off.

Someone was following her now, tracking her through the corridors, and they were skilled but she had lived amongst the Sindar long enough to know when she was being followed: a guard perhaps, to accost her for carrying an unsheathed weapon, Madam Lhaineth perhaps, coming to punish her, to demand she return. She did not turn back, did not acknowledge them. Let them pick a fight if that was what they wanted; she was ready. A flash of anger that was not her own suddenly coursed through her mind.

The corridors at last gave way to the secluded courtyard, exactly where she had remembered it being, her feet had seemed to carry her here of their own will. An empty and solitary fountain stood in the center and the pillars around the courtyard had fallen into disrepair, overrun with ivy, one of Menegroth's many forgotten places. The ivy had grown so thick that it nearly obscured the ceiling and only small beams of dim sunlight managed to penetrate the overgrowth. She had met Celeborn here many a time when they were just beginning their courtship and here they had passed many a pleasant hour in conversation and in one another's embrace. It seemed an age ago now, a world ago.

She did not dwell on such thoughts. Having entered that place she wheeled about, expecting to find that Paniel had followed her, seeking her revenge, come to ridicule her again, but the only sounds that filled that place were the scuff of her leather boots against the stones and the deadly whistle of her spear's blade before she heard the sound of metal on metal, sharp, ringing into the silence, and she looked into the eyes of her pursuer.

Almost like a specter he seemed, dressed in black, his hair tied back tightly, hanging behind him like a long ribbon of silver. And his eyes, they were hard, cold, calculating, judgmental…angry. She knew not how he had found her. Celeborn lowered his axe and, slowly, she lowered her spear.

Celebrimbor had followed her to watch in secret as she danced, and Celeborn… he had followed her to watch in secret how she killed. They were as different as the sun and the moon. There had been those who had warned her when she first began her courtship with him so long ago, some of Melian's handmaidens had whispered that he was a dangerous man, that he had done things, things of which no one spoke, and she had found that hard to believe. For all she had ever seen was the Celeborn who drank hard and laughed harder, who made an art of humor and of arrogance, who seemed to have not a subtle bone in his body, who did not temper his voice, who plainly spoke his mind.

But now she could see what they had meant when she looked into his eyes. Celeborn who could come upon you unawares and you would never have known, not until you felt his breath on the back of your neck, the steel of his blade in your gut, a knife in the night, brutal and unrefined, fey and fell. Celeborn who did not bother to wipe the blood from himself after a battle, who, it was rumored, had killed a bear with his bare hands. Celeborn who laughed in the face of war, Celeborn who had mocked Morgoth himself as he stood on the plains of Amon Ereb, who Finrod had said had painted himself in the blood of his kills. Celeborn the wise they called him. And now she could see his wisdom, a wisdom born of death.

And she wanted it, she welcomed it, she wanted nothing more than to bring her spear to bear against his axe, to fight him with all of her strength. She wanted him to strike her as thought he wished to kill her and she wanted to respond with the same. Her lungs felt tight from anger as they stood in a shaft of dim sunlight, looking at each other with fury clearly writ in their eyes and their breath like frosted smoke in the cool air of the caverns.

"Will we never be finished?" She asked him, her voice hard. He did not answer her question.

"Are you not sickened at the sight of me?" She spat. "Even the Valar find me abhorrent. Are you not frightened of me, a kinslayer, one who has shed elven blood?"

"You do not frighten me," Celeborn said, his voice barely a whisper, "nor do you sicken me."

"Then if you have any mercy in you I beg that you cut me down," she cried, near hysterical now. "It would have been better if I had died. I would be better now if I were dead. What good am I to anyone? I am only a burden!" Celeborn only ignored her question.

"When you take a life," he said, his voice low and angry, "you must always look into the eyes of the creature whose life you are taking." He struck, strong, hard, and she brought her spear to bear against his axe, the force of the blow made her feel as though her bones would shatter, as though he struck in seriousness, with the intent to kill. The blade of her spear vibrated and she held it at the ready as she took a step back, tensed to strike. And yet she was pleased, ready, for she had wished most ardently for a fight and now it was at hand. There was no opponent more suitable and, perhaps he was the opponent she had been fighting all along.

"Whether animal, or orc…or elf…" he struck again and this time she was ready, parrying his blow handily and striking back herself with strength. He blocked her.

"It is the last honor you can give them." He struck and she met his blow, pushing against him, using the energy to leap backwards, her spear at the ready.

"I looked each of them in the eyes," she replied, defending herself, her voice cool, strangely collected. "And I remember each one as clearly as if it had been yesterday."

"And me?" He asked. "When you took my life you looked away." She stood, stunned, silent, her anger forgotten in that moment, but he struck, quick as a viper, powerful as an ox, and she blocked the blow, leaping away once more.

"I loved you for your strength," he said, "but in the end I received only cowardice."

"It was not cowardice!" She cried, her eyes flashing angrily, and this time she struck, bringing her spear high over her head and he took advantage of the opening, swinging for her unguarded waist, but she blocked him with the butt of her weapon, hard, it seemed to barely affect him.

"It was cowardice!" He ground out from between clenched teeth. "You cared so little for my pain and so much for your own. And so you could not bear it, you could not bear to look into my eyes as you dealt me death!"

"And what would you know of it?" She cried. "What do any of you know of it? What do you know of killing save orcs and wild beasts? You who have not slain elf cannot know the stain that it leaves upon the soul, the scars that it leaves upon the heart! Can you tell me that you have never looked away, that it was never too much for you to endure? Are you so strong?" He lunged and she brought her spear up but the wall was at her back now and he pressed her into it as if he meant to crush her, his eyes filled with fury, his face a mere hair's breadth from her own.

"Once," he whispered, "I looked away. When I killed my mother." Galadriel gasped audibly, her eyes going wide with shock. She had never imagined…he pushed off of her and swung but she blocked him, circling round.

"Though an orc she had become, twisted, foul, I could not do her that one honor, though I had given it to countless others of her kind. And those whose eyes I did meet showed me fear and I reveled in it, showing neither pity nor mercy. I enjoyed their pain."

"Celeborn…" she breathed his name but he was already coming at her again and she was forced to block him, though she refused to strike.

"Does that make it just?" He asked. "Am I justified because she was made into an orc? She was an elf once." He struck again. "Were you justified because they were soldiers of Feanor and were attacking the Teleri? They were lives."

"I…" she stammered, but there was no reply she could think of.

"They were lives Galadriel!" His voice rang in the silence, reverberating, echoing back.

He moved towards her. She raised her spear but she did not mean it and he knew it and he knocked it aside, sending it skittering across the courtyard. His hands were rough as he pushed her back into the stone wall. "And the lies you told…you made them righteous in your mind." His breathing was heavy in the silence. "That is Morgoth's greatest power," he whispered, "and his greatest evil: not dragons, or Silmarils, or armies of orcs, but the twisting of things so that that which has no righteousness appears right and that which is without justice seems to our eyes just."

His axe, silver and deadly, glimmered in his right hand and he held it now before her face. "Think of what you are saying," he whispered. "Look," he commanded and, tentatively, she looked into the blade of the axe to see her own face reflected back at her. "Look and tell me that your life is not worth living. Look and tell me that you have no value in this world. Look into your own eyes and, if you can find no value, no worth there, then do not beg me to cut you down; do it yourself." He unsheathed his curved knife from his back and pressed it into her hand.

Galadriel stared into her reflection then and, instead of seeing there all of the wrong that she had wrought, instead of seeing the eyes of the mad cousins, instead of seeing Feanor's burning gaze of hate, she now saw instead Finrod's eyes, Aegnor's, Angrod's, Orodreth's, Celeborn's, Thingol's, Melian's, Luthien's, Earwen's, Finarfin's. And she found that she could not say what she had said earlier, what he had now commanded to say, could not drive the trembling knife into her own heart, only that she suddenly found herself very grateful for her life, even if it was a cursed one.

Celeborn dropped his axe to the ground as she surrendered the knife to him and he sheathed it. "It is easy to become distracted with petty grievances and quarrels," he said, his hands going to her shoulders, "and forget that our real enemy is Morgoth and that he is here, really truly here, and not only in Angbad but in our hearts as well. There are many things I do not know, Galadriel, and many things that confuse me, but one thing of which I am certain is that, somewhere beneath all of your pride, you have a kind heart and this world desperately needs kind hearts." He stepped back and she no longer felt afraid of him, was no longer afraid to look into his eyes and she did, steadily, strongly. "Do not forget it," he said. "You have been given a chance for redemption, just as Thingol gave to me, let us not squander that chance." The only sound that followed was their heavy breathing in the silence.

Somehow, hearing what he had said, knowing what he had done, she found that she no longer feared or hated him at all, that she no longer feared or hated herself. For the first time since she had known him, she was able to look into his eyes and feel as though she were hiding nothing, as though she were no longer disguising herself and perhaps it was because she now felt, for the first time, that she truly knew him, understood him. She had thought he passed judgment upon her while holding himself beyond reproach, but he had passed that same judgment upon himself as well. Though she was clothed now, it was as if she stood naked before him, as though he could see all of her for the first time and she could see all of him. For the first time she was unashamed and, for the first time, she truly felt free.

"I'm sorry," she said, simply.

"I'm sorry," he replied. They stood in the silence for a few minutes, merely watching one another.

"Shall we?" She asked him.

"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I think so." And he turned, walking over to retrieve her spear and she picked up his axe. They exchanged weapons and then they were at it again. Steel rang against steel and the deserted courtyard was filled with the scuffing of leather boots upon the cobblestones, hard breathing in the still, quiet air. They fought, for how long she did not know. They fought until the both of them were drenched in sweat, until their hair grew knotted and tangled, until they could hardly hold their weapons in trembling and weary hands. They fought until they collapsed, completely spent, onto the ground.

Celeborn rolled onto his back, rubbing his hands across his face and she crawled over to lay down at his side. "Oh," Galadriel said, "I have the feeling I will have so many things to be very sorry for come evening." Celeborn smiled, then grinned, and at last he burst out into full-fledged laughter.

"You look like an…like an old dwarf crawling about on your hands and knees," he managed to gasp out. It really was not that funny, but Galadriel laughed until tears came to her eyes.

"Shut up!" She groaned. "I feel like an old dwarf after that." They lay there, recuperating, and, when at last Galadriel had gotten her breath back, she turned her head to him asking, "was that the last of your anger?"

"Yes," he said, "I think so. And you?"

"Yes," she replied.

He was silent for a while before he continued his thoughts. "There's no use in it, us being angry at each other I mean. We both have to live here now, we'll probably end up in the same circles at some point or another; it is a waste of time to be angry. The both of us have bigger foes to fight after all."

"Yes," she said. "I think you're right." And, raising her hand, she began to trace the flight of the birds across the cavern's sky. "Celeborn?" She asked, letting her hand fall back to her chest.

"Hmm?" He turned to look at her.

"You really don't love me anymore, do you?" She asked. The question was more rhetorical than anything. His eyes had already told her the answer. He turned to look at her.

"I care for you very deeply," he said, "more than anyone else even except maybe Thingol. Indeed, I hardly think I would have been as angry at you as I was if I had not cared so much for you, but no, I do not think it is love. It does not feel like what we had before." They were silent for a moment and then he asked her, "and do you still love me?"

"If you had asked me that an hour ago," she said, "I almost certainly would have said 'yes' but now I am unsure. It is rather like what you have said, a different kind of caring almost, just as deep, just as true, but it is a different sort of thing." And the silence between them was comfortable now, pleasant almost.

"You know, I'm very sorry it didn't work out between us," Celeborn said with a sigh. "I…I really did think that there was something there…"

"I know," she said. "We both did. But that's just the way things are sometimes."

"Yes," he said. "I suppose so." After a pause he continued. "Perhaps it is better this way after all. Our paths at the moment are so very different. I'd offer to be friends," he said, "except that I really can't be seen around you and I don't mean that to hurt you. But my people still bear so much hatred towards you, towards the Noldor that they would never forgive me for it and, worse than that, there are many elves, powerful elves in this city who would treat you far worse if I showed you any sign of friendship. I think you have a promise here, a future perhaps, and I would never wish to ruin that for you. I will be civil towards you; I can promise nothing more, but always know that I care for you very much, even if I cannot properly show it."

"I understand," she said, and she really did mean it. "Perhaps one day things will be better between our peoples and then…who knows, maybe we can be friends after all."

"Yes, maybe," he said. "Who knows…" They were silent for a while, lying there, just breathing.

"Your mother," she said, turning on her side again and he tilted his head to look at her. "What happened?"

"It isn't even that I feel sorry for her really," Celeborn said. "Indeed, I hardly knew her at all. I barely remembered her. It was that Morgoth made me do something abhorrent, forced my hand," he sighed. "I could never think of myself the same way after that. I remember how I set out for the battle, so full of pride, so self-assured, so hopeful, and in the matter of a moment all of that had been crushed. My beliefs, my self, my entire world was destroyed in the matter of an instant."

"I think I know how you feel," she replied. "That is what it was like that day in Alqualonde."

"I think you must," he confessed and then sighed. "It was a mess, the Battle of Beleriand." And then he told her the entire tale, of how they had first discovered what the orcs were, how Belegur had made them, of how he wondered if there was any chance of redemption for them, if they went to Mandos's halls or not, if they too could be reborn. And he told her of Amdir, of what had happened to the Green Elves and the Avari, of the seeds of discord that had been sown amongst the elves of Beleriand, of how so many of his people used the Noldor as scapegoats for problems that had existed long before they had arrived in Middle Earth. He confided in her his concerns that he had damaged his relationship with Thingol, with Galathil, with his friends, and his worries over the ever-increasing political instability in Doriath. She listened to all of it, turning on her side so that she could look at him properly and, when at last he had run out of words to say, he turned to her, asking; "the kinslaying, what happened? And I don't mean the particulars; I want to know what you felt, how you saw it. Was it really like what happened to me?"

Then it was her turn to tell him all that had happened and she spoke of her fear, her pain, the complete incomprehension she had felt at seeing elves do what she had never imagined they could. She told him of how she had found her cousins, children of her mother's brothers, slain and mutilated on the bloody quay, how afraid she had been to kill, how horrified she had been when she had done so. And then she spoke of how her father had turned back, how she had cried about it, the tears freezing on her cheeks in the bitter cold of the Helcaraxe, how they had been abandoned by their cousins, the sons of Feanor, to their deaths in that icy wasteland. She had watched so many die, even as she felt increasingly alone, her father having turned back, her relationships with her brothers strained, threatening to break with each passing day. And the secret to which they had bound her, to which she had bound herself, had further robbed her of any hope of intimacy or true friendship. At last she spoke of the horrible guilt that plagued her over what she had done, to Thingol, to him, to her brothers, to her cousins, to her parents.

"I wonder," Celeborn said, "that you can still find pity in your heart for the sons of Feanor."

"Do you think me weak for it?" She asked.

"I used to," he told her. "After I met Curufin I expected to hate him, wanted to, and yet…there was something about him that was so sad that I wanted to feel pity for him but I could not find it within myself to do so. No, I do not think you are weak. I think it shows that your heart is of inestimable strength."

She reached over and patted his hand and, at the touch, a strange sensation shot through her. She felt as though she were lost in a memory for a moment. She was sitting in the topmost branches of a very tall tree and this tree was most certainly living, not in the way that trees ordinarily lived, but in the way that an elf lived, moving, breathing, speaking. The tree upon which she was mounted was striding with great long steps across the earth, speaking softly in some language that she did not understand, but the sound of it was gentle, kind, comforting. She smiled, feeling the wind in her hair.

"What is it?" Celeborn asked softly, and the sound of his voice brought her back to the present. "Have you had a seeing?"

"No," she said, "not a vision, or at least I don't think so. It's just…it feels as though I am reliving memories, except they are not my own."

"Oh?" He asked seeming curious.

"It has only been happening since I returned to Menegroth. But don't worry over it, I am certain it is nothing bad. They are always pleasant memories." She stood, wiping dirt from her skirt and Celeborn stood as well.

"Well," he said, "I suppose we ought to…it would not look good if we were discovered."

"Yes," she said, "I ought to get back before Madam Lhaineth decides to destroy me entirely." They grinned at one another, awkwardly almost, as if neither of them really wished to part. "It is strange," Galadriel said with a small laugh, "but I…somehow I almost feel as if I never really knew you until now."

"I was just going to say the same thing, actually," he replied and he looked away, a small smile on his face before they turned, going their separate ways. It was with some measure of fear that Galadriel approached the servants' quarters but she steeled herself, making ready for whatever was about to happen. And yet, when she arrived she found only Madam Lhaineth seated before the doors, asleep in a chair, her eyes gazing off into the distance and her usual newspaper folded in her lap.

Galadriel cleared her throat softly, her heart fluttering with nervousness. "Um…Madam Lhaineth?" The Sinda started awake, sitting up suddenly and then relaxing when she realized that it was Galadriel. Her face was expressionless. "I…I'm very sorry," Galadriel said.

"You had better be!" Madam Lhaineth replied.

"I...I am. Most heartily so," Galadriel assured her and Madam Lhaineth sighed. "Whatever punishment you wish to inflict I shall certainly accept it," Galadriel told her.

Madam Lhaineth looked at her for a good, long moment and then said, "go to bed. They will not bother you anymore." Galadriel bowed dutifully and passed within, placing her spear beneath her bed once more and slipping beneath the covers where she fell asleep and slept more peacefully than she had in a very long while. And she had thought for certain that Madam Lhaineth would punish her the day after, or certainly the day after that but the punishment never came and, eventually, she realized that it never would.


	21. Perchance to Dream

  
**Perchance to Dream**

In Cavern's Shade: 21st Chapter

*****

"Here must all distrust be left behind;  
all cowardice must be ended.

– Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

*****

**Author's note:** I promise there is more Melian soon. Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about her. Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading! I love reading your reviews!

*****

"Galadriel!" She had just barely heard the quiet hiss but the sound of it nearly caused her to drop the basket of laundry she was carrying. Celeborn. They had not spoken since they had dueled that night in the courtyard and she wondered what on earth he could possibly want, especially given that they had agreed in their previous conversation that they ought not speak to one another publicly. She glanced around, her eyes darting down the corridor, but the hallway was empty and her only company was the light of the early morning sun shining through the ornately crafted ivory grates at her back behind which lay a courtyard.

"Why are you speaking to me?" She whispered. "Do you not know that even the walls of this palace have eyes and ears?" His quiet laughter was the only reply she received.

"Where are you?" She demanded to know.

"Not so very far," he replied. "Only in the courtyard on the other side of the grate here. There is no one here, I assure you." Galadriel huffed in response.

"I do not know what you can be thinking," she murmured, her words coming out in a frustrated rush. "Madam Laineth would flay me alive if I were seen speaking to you, or anyone of any standing really." Her mind ran to the far more terrible punishments that Paniel could doubtlessly dream up.

"You? Imagine what they'd do to me," he said.

"How did you know I would be here?" She queried.

"As you said yourself, even the walls of this palace have eyes and ears," he quipped.

"Celeborn, I'm being entirely serious here," she said, exasperated, desperately glancing down the hallway, praying to the Valar that no one would appear.

"As am I," he replied. Galadriel hesitated for a moment, trying to discern whether or not that was true. It was far more difficult to do when she could not see his face and she was, after all, nearly 150 years out of practice.

"No you're not," she replied finally, in a huff. His soft laughter confirmed it.

"You are," he said, "the most impertinent servant I have ever encountered."

"Anyone who was born a princess of Valinor would be!" She hissed, marveling at how he could be so casual with her so quickly after all that had passed.

"That is an attitude you would do well to leave behind," he said, not sounding as jovial as he had a moment ago. She bristled at his comment even as she felt guilty for her ire.

"You have yet to give me any reason for stopping me and I shall most certainly be sorely punished if found out," she said. "I am sorry, Sir, but the pleasure of your company is not enough to retain me! I bid you good day!" And having so said she began to stalk off but Celeborn called her back.

"Wait you silly thing!" He hissed, laughing, and she paused. "Drop your laundry basket," he whispered.

"What?" Galadriel asked, having had quite enough of his antics and her embarrassment.

"Drop the basket," he said, his voice hurried.

"Why?" She queried.

"Why must you be so stubborn now?" He exclaimed. "Drop it because I am the High Prince of Doriath and I have commanded it!" He heard her huff, as if it was beneath her for him to command her, but he also heard her steps coming closer once more until he could hear the basket fall on the other side of the grate. "Now bend down," he instructed.

"Excuse me! Just what sort of game are you playing at?" She protested.

"I am trying to help you!" He exclaimed. Finrod had once told him of his frustration when Galadriel was being difficult and Celeborn now found that he could not agree more. "Now bend down and begin folding the clothes you have dropped. If anyone passes you will look inconspicuous, merely a clumsy girl remedying her mistake."

"I am hardly clumsy," she protested but he could hear that she had obeyed.

"Of course. You are the picture of grace," he said, rolling his eyes, hoping that the sarcasm in his voice did not come through as strongly as he felt it or she might very well stalk off again.

"Why would you want to help me?" She asked suspiciously.

"And to think that when last you were in Doriath you were so innocent of court intrigues." He heard her snort with laughter at that.

"I was," she mused, "but I was ignorant not only of those of Doriath, but of my own people as well and I trusted where I ought not to have done so. I know better now."

"Do you?" He asked and she paused, then cleared her throat loudly to signal that someone was coming, for there were footsteps in the corridor and, shortly, a small group of ladies passed by, barely pausing to notice Galadriel folding her spilled laundry upon the ground. When at last they were gone he spoke again.

"I have heard that you had words with Venessiel," he whispered. "She has taken an interest in you. Be careful what you say to her." The words startled Galadriel and she wondered how Celeborn would have come to know that if Venessiel had not said something of it to him herself.

As if he had read her mind Celeborn said, "she has been working with me on an important diplomatic matter and she tells me things from time to time."

"Then if she is your ally I do not see why my speaking to her should bother you," Galadriel said, a bit hurt in truth, for though she had her own doubts regarding Venessiel, she wanted so desperately to believe that the Sindarin lady truly did empathize with her, that she had meant what she said about everyone making mistakes and needing to help one another.

"I know that she can be very charming and it may very well be that she means well and has the best of intentions regarding you but it would behoove you to be cautious where she is concerned," Celeborn murmured.

"You do know that she said nearly the same thing about you," Galadriel replied. "Why ought I to trust you over her?" She could practically feel Celeborn's frustration, nay, she nearly believed that she could actually feel it. She heard his hands slap against the grate.

"I am not saying that she is a bad person," Celeborn groaned, frustrated. "You ought to know by now that no one is either wholly good or wholly bad." That had been a patronizing thing to say and he took it back. "Look, Galadriel, I did not mean that and I can give you no guarantees or assurances that I deserve your trust more than she does. It is only that I am concerned for you." He heard her humph and could well imagine how put off she was.

"I crossed the Helcaraxe," she said. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"That is your pride again," Celeborn shot back. There was silence on the other side of the grate and he half feared that she had snuck away.

"And that is your quick mouth," she said, it was a poor comeback and he knew she knew it.

"I will see you broken of that pride, Galadriel," he said, frustrated, "come hell or high water. And you will thank me for it in the end."

"Your arrogance knows no bounds, your highness," she scoffed.

"I assure you my hand will be far gentler than this world's," he reprimanded her. She was silent. "Galadriel," he sighed, understanding that she needed reason to understand, "I am not saying that I am better than you. I am not trying to be patronizing or condescending."

"That isn't how it feels," she grumbled.

"I'm sorry," Celeborn replied. He meant it too. He ought to have explained to her and instead he had taken cheap shots at her as if this were some political debate.

"I accept your apology," he heard her murmur.

"Galadriel, Venessiel can be extraordinarily kind and thoughtful but she has a past that you don't know about. You are free to do as you like, of course, regarding her, but I am only trying to make as much information as possible available to you so that you can make an informed decision and that is because I thought we had decided that we would be friends."

"Well that is understandable," he heard Galadriel admit. "But I wonder if it is not the case that we all have dark things in our past. Still, we must move forward."

"I…I have some suspicions about her," Celeborn said, "nothing I will voice seeing as I have no evidence, but I would hate to see you caught up in her schemes."

"It might be easier for me to avoid that if you would tell me plainly what it is that you speak of rather than being so cryptic about things," Galadriel said. "It is very unlike you to beat around the bush in such a fashion." Celeborn bit his lip and sighed.

"You must not say anything to anyone," he said. "I believe she has reformed herself but…still…Galadriel, Venessiel is a terrible gambler."

"And Thingol allows her control over all of the money?" Galadriel said as though this were unbelievable.

"She is also extremely gifted with mathematics and matters of the economy," Celeborn said. "After all, what is an economy anyway but one big gamble. The vast majority of the time her gambles pay off, she wins, she makes excellent financial decisions….but when she loses she loses a fortune, and not an individual fortune, enough for an entire kingdom."

"So long as she is gambling with her own money and not the crown's then that is no one else's business," Galadriel said. "But that has not always been the case, has it Celeborn? Else you would not be speaking to me now." She had been very quick to catch on, she always was.

"That is…what ended things between us," Celeborn whispered, embarrassed that he had to tell this tale. "It was a long, long time ago when I was young, younger. I…I countersigned on a loan for her. I trusted her. I thought I loved her, that I would marry her. And she…she gambled it away, she defaulted, she took me for all I was worth. Thingol gave me the position of counselor not because I deserved it necessarily, but because I was penniless, having squandered my inheritance, and he had enough mercy to take pity on me, undeserving though I was."

"You could not get any of it back?" Galadriel asked.

"No. I had signed my name, freely," he said. "That was that."

"Was she sorry about it?" Galadriel asked him.

"She was," Celeborn said. "She did not want things to be over. She begged me, pleaded, offered to pay me back with interest but I knew by then how she would get the money for me, she would do it by gambling with someone else's money. When I left her though it seemed to change her, she worked hard to reform herself, to right what wrongs she had done, to be rid of her old habits. Still…I cannot quite trust her. She came far too close to ruination for my comfort, and took me with her." Galadriel hung her head, though he could not see her, for she almost felt as though she had done much the same thing to him. If only she had known…but no, regardless of whether she had known or not, what she had done had been wrong.

"Thank you for telling me," she said and heard Celeborn grunt in affirmation. He was embarrassed, she knew.

"Do not get offended with me if I say that I worry her interest in you may not be entirely genuine then," Celeborn whispered. "Yes, I believe she has been reformed for thousands of years now but I have my suspicions. I played off of her gambling habits in order to encourage her to vote for Finrod's bid to build Nargothrond and it worked. She may have put her gambling days behind her but perhaps those old habits die very hard. It…your penchant for pride is no great secret Galadriel. She knows that and she knows how to play to prideful people. If she is concealing some secret, some debt, she may try to rope you in, to involve you in it so that you could not reveal her treachery without dooming yourself as well. And, it would not be an illogical plan for her to come up with. That is precisely what your brothers, what the Feanorians encouraged you to do regarding the kinslaying. She may believe she can force you into a similar position." Celeborn half worried that Galadriel would grow angry with him for having brought that up but she did not.

Galadriel could feel her heart quaking, for there was some hint of truth in what Celeborn was saying, as though it rhymed with the initial distrust of Venessiel that she had sensed. And yet she was sad, for she had so badly wanted to believe that the Lady had truly had sympathy for her, that she had genuinely wanted to be her friend in a place where she had none.

"I thought that she wanted to be my friend," she whispered and it was such a disheartening and genuine thing to hear her say that Celeborn felt sorrow for her. Her pride of earlier had been so inexorably crushed and not in a gentle way.

"Your true friends will not use you," he whispered and he thought he heard a sniffle.

"I know," she said, "Finrod told me as much after…well after that business with the kinslaying and then with Celebrimbor."

"But do you really know it in your heart?" Celeborn asked her.

"I don't think I have any true friends," she said. "Everyone here hates me. Everyone in Valinor hates me. All of my own people hate me."

"Well you have me," Celeborn told her, "even though that might be very little consolation. I have heard I can be difficult and ornery and extraordinarily cross." His words drew a small laugh out of her.

"It is very little consolation," she said. "You're an arrogant ass Celeborn Galadhonion." He knew she meant it, but in a friendly way, and so he smiled, though she could not see him.

"Beware of anyone who offers you everything you desire Galadriel," he told her. "Everyone acts as though we must fight over pieces of the same pie, but it is possible to bake your own pie."

"What on earth do you mean, Celeborn?" Galadriel asked him. Sindarin idioms were still so strange to her and Celeborn's speech was littered with them, but he seemed to have stepped away.

"Prince Celeborn!" She heard a faint voice exclaim, "it has been a while has it not? How pleasant to find you here." Someone else had entered the courtyard with him and so Galadriel fell silent.

"Trust me," she heard him whisper. "I know you believe yourself cursed but you must do this on your own, and it must be by your hand that it is initiated."

"That what is initiated?" She whispered back frantically, her heart pounding, but he was gone now and she heard his voice in the distance, speaking to whomever it was who had entered the courtyard now.

In the weeks and months after, her head was filled with what Celeborn had said and the questions ran back and forth in her mind. Why had he sought her out? Was it really to help her? And, if so, then why? Was something happening of which she was not aware? And what had his warning meant? What was it that she must initiate and why? Celeborn was usually very plainspoken but, on those rare occasions when he was not, he was more cryptic than anyone else she knew. The more she thought on it the more frustrated she became.

"So," Galadriel had still been lost in those thoughts some years later as she was mending her apron and the sudden voice to her left had caused her to start, pricking her finger. She sucked on it, staunching the flow of blood, and then pressed it against the navy blue wool of her overdress. There was a girl lying on the bed next to her but she had her head propped up on her hands and seemed not to mind at all that she had caused the Noldo to prick her finger. She recognized her as the wild-haired girl those years ago who had tried to help her pick up her laundry before Paniel had forbid it. Galadriel eyed her suspiciously.

"Yes?" She asked, wondering if this was some trick to provoke her, if this girl was in league with her tormentor.

"So I have been wondering - how old are you anyway? If you were exiled for a century then you are certainly older than a hundred years."

Galadriel plunged her needle back into the apron, drawing it through. "Nearly 1,500," she said, wondering why the girl should care, "that's in years of the sun, of course. It is less if we count in Valian years."

"1,500!" The girl parroted back incredulously. She began laughing. It was an unattractive laugh, Galadriel noted, halfway between a snort and a choking sound. "Ooooohhh!" She rolled onto her back, folding her arms behind her head and quirked a brow at Galadriel. "1,500? Really?"

"Yes." Galadriel said, a bit curtly. She found the girl's manner of speaking to be a bit strange, but then again, all of the younger elves sounded strange to her ears.

"Well you don't have to be nasty about it. Why are you always so testy? If I were in your position I'd be trying to make friends," The girl said, still smiling, as if Galadriel's foul mood had not put a damper on her spirits at all.

"My apologies," Galadriel ground out, not really meaning it. She was still busy wondering what Celeborn had meant and the interruption bothered her. "My recent interactions with you Sindar have been less than pleasant." Paniel's sneering face came to mind.

"Oh, how typical," the curly-haired brunette scoffed, scowling for the first time. "Just making assumptions about me are you? Who ever said I was a Sinda?" Galadriel stopped stitching, struck mute for a moment by the realization that her foul mood had caused her to do exactly what the girl had just accused her of. And, moreover, that she had made fallacious assumptions once more, just as Celeborn had cautioned her against.

"My apologies," she said, somewhat stiffly. She was embarrassed. "What are you?" It seemed an indelicate way to phrase the question but the girl seemed not to mind.

"I'm a green elf," the girl said proudly, "name's Bainwen."

"Galadriel." Galadriel said.

"I'm not calling you Galadriel," Bainwen laughed. "That's no sort of name for a laundress."

"It is my name," Galadriel said, testy once more, but Bainwen shrugged it off.

"I know what your name is. Everyone knows your name. They told me about you when I first got here, said you were a princess, a Noldorin princess, and you killed some elves and then lied about it."

"That's…that's what you know about me?" Galadriel asked, astounded. Bainwen nodded. The thought that Thingol may have considered her assignment far more carefully than she had previously assumed began to dawn on her. "So how old are you?" She asked, intrigued now.

"I'm 85," Bainwen said. "And I'm one of the oldest. Well, I'm the oldest except for Paniel. Paniel's the oldest really. She's 130 something, or at least that's what she said. But she's different."

"You weren't even born when last I lived in Menegroth. None of you were," she mused aloud. Of course, the younger elves would be more forgiving. They were much further removed from the kinslaying, they had never known the Teleri of Aman, never known her during her previous stint in Menegroth, and everything they had heard regarding her would have been second-hand knowledge.

Bainwen nodded. "I'm not from Menegroth anyway," she said.

"But if they only know what they have heard about me from others then why do they hate me so?" Galadriel asked, her mending completely forgotten now. She turned about, sitting cross-legged on her bed so that she could face Bainwen and the chestnut-haired green elf sat up.

"Mostly because of Paniel, the blonde."

"Yes, I learned who she was rather quickly," Galadriel said with a wry laugh.

"Well so does everyone," Bainwen said. "She…" the girl's eyes darted around as if to make sure no one was listening. "She has a bone to pick with you. That's why she is always provoking you and bullying us into bullying you."

"Well I've never done anything to her so…" Galadriel began.

"Your cousin, he lives at Himlad," the girl said.

"Curufin?" Galadriel asked. A thought was beginning to dawn on her now and she remembered what the healer had said to her after she came to, something about what Curufin had done to some Sindarin girl at Himlad.

"Maybe, that sounds right. It started with a C, I think. He's one of Feanor's sons, or so I heard. She's from one of those Sindarin villages up there but she was brought into service at Himlad. She doesn't talk about it; some people say she went there for work, others say that she was conscripted against her will. Apparently the working conditions are terrible there. That's what I hear from the Sindar who come to the capital from that region. Abusive, they say it is. But anyway, Curufin beat her, beat Paniel I mean. That's why half her teeth are missing and she has that scar on her head."

"What happened?" Galadriel asked, horrified, though she certainly did not put it past her cousin. She was even more horrified to contemplate the notion that she too had dealt violence to someone Curufin had abused.

"I heard it was not too long after you left, ten years maybe, that Thingol sent the Prince Celeborn, you know, the handsome one with the silver hair."

"I know," Galadriel supplied, wondering how this could possibly have escaped Bainwen's notice unless she had not been present when Paniel had been reading her letters aloud. The incident was something that had never been mentioned afterwards and she wondered what Madam Lhaineth had done or threatened to get such compliance from the other girls. Even Paniel had not caused her much trouble in the years after that, though she had not stopped entirely, and, given time, had resumed her reign of torment.

"Yes, him, Celeborn, and the Princess Luthien. Thingol sent them to Himlad to issue his decree banning the use of Quenya in Beleriand. And Curufin was outraged so he commanded Paniel in Quenya but she refused to hear him so he beat her with the pommel of his sword. The prince and princess rescued her and brought her back here. Is it true do you think?"

"I don't doubt it," Galadriel replied and within her heart she felt sudden and unexpected pity for Paniel. "Curufin has a horrible temper and a tendency towards brutality. And besides, I know that Prince Celeborn was in the region at that time." She said.

"Oh do you?" Bainwen grinned like a cat about to scarf down a delicious morsel of food. "How's that?"

"He came to Nargothrond a few years before I returned to Menegroth and it was then that he told me," she replied.

"He spoke to you, personally?" Bainwen nearly squealed in excitement, bouncing slightly on her bed. Galadriel nodded and the younger elf collapsed on her back. "Don't you think he's so very dreamy?" She asked in the voice of the lovelorn. "Oh, if only he would just speak my name but once! Ah!" She giggled and turned on her side. "You know," she said conspiratorially, "I sometimes have the most fantastic dreams of him, and sometimes of Mablung too." She quirked a brow and grinned in a manner that caused Galadriel to laugh.

"What is a young green elf like you doing here?" Galadriel asked, eager to move the conversation away from the topic of princes and romance.

"I'm just a poor country girl come to the big city to seek my fame and fortune," Bainwen said.

Galadriel could not help but laugh at that. "That, Bainwen, is the most horrid cliché I have ever heard," she said.

Bainwen laughed. "But I love clichés!" She exclaimed. "Anyway, that's how we all are, all the maids, just girls looking for opportunities. It's a good starting position. You can do really well here, you know, if you work hard. I mean, I know the work is wretched at first, but if you put in your time and do good service then you'll get promoted. You're in the laundry now so that's good." She said and Galadriel nodded.

"See, you haven't done so bad and, if you're good and they like you then you can move up to be something like a dancer or a musician or something. And from there maybe one of the more well-to-do families will take notice of you and you'll be granted a position as a servant in a household. And, once you do that, you get a room of your own in the household and you don't have to live in a dormitory anymore." She flopped onto her stomach and Galadriel marveled at how she had managed to say all of that without taking a single breath.

"You can do that?" Galadriel asked, her mind seemingly lit aflame. "You can attain position in that way?"

"Of course," Bainwen laughed as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And then, people who work really hard, and who maybe have a few connections or make some powerful friends, those people sometimes become handmaidens for one of the noble ladies." Bainwen's eyes glimmered. "That's how Lady Venessiel, you know, Prince Oropher's wife…" Galadriel laughed at the younger elf's enthusiasm but at the same time she wondered then if Venessiel was perhaps genuine in her approaches. If she had risen to such a high position from the bottom then perhaps she did genuinely have empathy for her plight.

"Yes, I know her. It is just that I did not know that a servant could attain advancement, position here. It is not so among my people," Galadriel answered. "Servants stay servants. They don't become…ladies or, or members of the king's council or anything like that."

"Well Lady Venessiel is a minister and I heard, but I don't know if it's true, that that's how she rose to power. Of course, usually handmaidens are noble ladies but it is not unheard of for a servant to work her way up. You see, if you can become a handmaiden in one of the royal households then you will earn a very good wage and have not just your own room, but a whole slew of chambers to yourself. Imagine such a thing! And," she stopped to take a breath, "then you will have the money to buy your own rooms if you wish, and leave the service, and set up your own household, your very own. Can you imagine that? That's what I'm going to do."

"Are you?" Galadriel could not help but laugh at the girl's enthusiasm.

Bainwen nodded. "What about you? Do you want your own household too? It's awfully strange to have a princess being a maid."

"Well I'm no princess as far as Doriath is concerned," she said. "I have precious little money. And besides, I'm on a sort of probation so I doubt anyone would want to take me into their household. Although yes, that would be nice I suppose." But her heart was fluttering in her chest, for she had been intent on serving her sentence, on proving that she could stay in Menegroth, on lasting this out, but it had never occurred to her that this might be an opportunity to grasp everything she had ever wanted, to establish her own household here in Doriath, one that was not dependent on a brother or a husband. It could be a start, a start for greater things. Perhaps…no, this must be what Celeborn had meant. But what was that to him? Why should he care?

"You don't sound very excited," Bainwen said, furrowing her brow. "What are you planning on doing, running back to live off of your brother's wealth?"

"No!" Galadriel exclaimed. "I mean to make my own way, thank you very much." But Bainwen merely exploded in laughter.

"Hah!" She crowed before burrowing beneath the covers of her bed. "If I had a rich brother you had better believe I would be living off of him," she said. "Well I'm off to sleep then. Good day Naneth."

"Naneth?" Galadriel queried.

"Because you're so old." The girl replied and Galadriel snorted with laughter, shaking her head, but already remorse was growing in her heart regarding what had passed between she and Paniel for now, having spoken to Celeborn, and having heard of her history from Bainwen, she found that there was no place in her heart where she could any longer harbor resentment or anger against her.

Thus it was not so many years later that Galadriel, having managed to set aside some of her pride, and sincerely feeling remorse for what she had done to Paniel, came to be determined that she must make some sort of apology to her. However, how to go about doing that was a different matter altogether and, once she had decided to go through with it after all, it was a matter of a few weeks before her courage and her fortune in catching Paniel on her own managed to coincide.

At last, one day as the sun had already begun its ascent, she had the luck to find herself alone with the taciturn Sinda. It was strange, she mused, that she should now consider it fortune, for ordinarily she would have considered it a curse.

"Paniel," Galadriel said by way of beginning and Paniel visibly stiffened as though she could hardly believe that the Noldo would dare speak to her but she continued to wash the clothes that she was tending to and said nothing.

"I…I wanted to apologize for all that has passed between us," Galadriel continued. "I am sorry for having attacked you and for having shown you ill will. And, I am very sorry for what my cousin did to you. Believe me when I say that I despise him with all my heart."

But Paniel showed no signs of having heard her and merely threw down the clothes she was washing and took up a basket of clean clothes, exiting the laundries. After a moment, Galadriel followed her.

"If…if there is anything I can do to make things good between us…" she said, following the Sinda through the empty corridors.

"Oh, enough with that!" Paniel hissed, stopping and turning towards her. "That's all you are good for, apologies. After all you have done I can hardly believe that you have the audacity to come back to Menegroth," her eyes were hard. "Every time I look at you I am reminded of the torment I suffered at the hands of your cousins, how I was treated like a lesser being in my own native land, like I was an animal, not even an elf."

"I am sorry for –" Galadriel began to apologize for her cousins out of habit before recalling that Paniel had just said how much she despised her apologies, and she stopped.

"I am not who I was then," she said instead, yet this seemed to inflame the Sinda even further.

"That's the problem with you!" Paniel cried, seeming to have lost all patience as she threw down the laundry basket, stepping over it to stand directly before Galadriel, wrapping her arms about herself as if she feared she would shatter. "You think you can fix things, fix yourself, fix me, fix everything you've done. Sometimes things are broken, they are just broken and there is nothing you can do about them, Galadriel. So just let them be, just let them be broken. Nobody wants you and nobody wants you to fix things."

"I am willing to try!" Galadriel said, growing frustrated as she and Paniel stared one another down. "Do not consign yourself to despair, Paniel! There is hope! Can we not at least try to be friends or at least be cordial to one another? Perhaps it will not work but what is the use in not trying at all? Let us help each other!"

The Sinda scoffed. "You are truly insufferable," she said. "Ten times my age and you still believe in myths, and hopes, and goodness. Do you not know how ridiculous it is that someone like you, someone so soiled, so marred, could ever hope for anything, could ever believe in promises and beginnings?" She shook her head as though she thought that Galadriel was the biggest idiot she had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

"Stay away from me," she said, shaking her finger at Galadriel. "I don't want anything to do with you. I don't want anything to do with anyone. Keep your stupid apologies and your inane dreams for the future to yourself." And with that she took up the basket that she had thrown down and stormed off but Galadriel stood there for a long while, sighing as she slowly trailed her fingers through the clear waters of the courtyard fountain. I should have expected, she thought to herself, that an apology could not fix everything.

Suddenly, she gasped, startled, having seen a face in the water appear opposite her and she looked up to see the Lady Venessiel standing there. She was watching the Noldorin maid with her dark eyes. "My Lady! I hope that I have not disturbed you!" She gasped. Madame Lhaineth would be horrified if she knew that Galadriel had wandered inadvertently into the presence of royalty and, what was more, most likely had a fight before her very eyes.

"Peace," Prince Oropher's wife said with a small smile. "Such quarrels will sometimes happen. This, it seems, is not your fault."

Galadriel was silent for a moment, wary, for there was something off about those words and Celeborn's warning still echoed in her mind, even as it warred with her curiosity as to whether Venessiel truly did have empathy for her, if she was one who had reformed herself seeking to help another do the same. "But…it is my fault, your highness," Galadriel admitted. "I got into a wretched fight with her some years ago."

Venessiel smiled again. "Anger is a poison," she said. "And her anger is poisoning her. I am glad to see that you have let yours go."

Galadriel shrugged. "It…it seemed to not be profiting anyone at all and so I saw no sense in clinging to it any longer."

"That, I think, is a wise decision," Venessiel said. The two women were silent for a while. Galadriel's mind was busy, trying to puzzle out what had just happened and why, yet again, she had managed to happen upon the Lady Venessiel. It all seemed too odd to be mere chance.

"My Lady," she said, raising her head to meet Venessiel's gaze, "might I be permitted a question?"

"You may," Venessiel replied.

"Are you…are you following me?" Galadriel said. It seemed rather rude now that it was out and she rushed to explain. "It is only that it seems rather odd that I find myself coming across you so often, and not only you, but sometimes I think that Celeborn is following me and, at times I have glimpsed others who disappear into the shadows when my eyes light upon them." Venessiel smiled mysteriously in response to what she had said.

"Sit, Galadriel," she invited the Noldo and they seated themselves upon the broad marble lip of the fountain. "It seems that Celeborn has been remiss in telling you. Perhaps he has sought to spare your feelings, perhaps he has other interests, Valar knows I gave up trying to understand that elf ages ago. My heart is not as kind as his and so I will tell you, though sometimes I believe unkindess can in itself be a mercy."

"Tell me what?" Galadriel asked, feeling very nervous and wondering if it would not have been better if she had never asked. Was this a trick? But if it was then it was certainly an elaborate one and Venessiel seemed so kind, so forgiving.

"That girl you just quarreled with," Venessiel said quietly, almost as though she feared someone would hear, "do you find her harsh? Do you find her treatment of you unfair? Do you find her to be cruel?" Galadriel remained silent. "I can assure you that she is the least of your worries," Venessiel said. "There are those in this city who want you dead. There are those in this palace that would rip you limb from limb if given the slightest opportunity. There are those who believe you are in league with your cousins, that you seek to undermine Doriath from within."

"I would sooner die than aid them in any way!" Galadriel replied, her eyes hard with fury at the thought.

"But they will never believe it!" Venessiel told her, taking her hand, her eyes meeting Galadriel's imploringly. "If any of this becomes too difficult for you, if you are ever threatened, if you ever feel unsafe then come to me, go to Celeborn. We are under orders to arrange your safe passage to Nargothrond if such a situation arises."

"Doriath is my home and I will fight for her!" Galadriel replied, insulted by what she deemed as an insinuation that she would give up. But in her heart she was humbled by the knowledge that Melian and Thingol had set those they trusted to watch over her carefully.

Venessiel sighed and then smiled a small smile. "Well do I understand your feelings daughter of Earwen," she replied. A few minutes passed in silence during which Galadriel wondered why it was that Venessiel would tell her all of this, for it was true what she had said, that Celeborn had said nothing of this and Galadriel wondered if she had reason to doubt him. At last she voiced her concern.

"But why do you tell me these things?" Galadriel asked her and Venessiel sighed, suddenly looking quite sad.

"Because the hour is dark," she said, "and we have no light. Doriath cannot weather a war with the sons of Feanor, Galadriel, but the war hawks are circling now."

"What do you mean?" Galadriel asked her, confused, frightened.

"Has he said nothing of it to you?" Venessiel's eyes crackled with latent anger. "Curse Celeborn and his soft heart! We have been having letters lately from your cousins at Himring. In the wake of Menegroth's failure to address our northern people's problems with Maedhros they have taken matters into their own hands, sabotaging the Noldorin mining operations there, releasing their horses and farm animals into the wild, diverting streams to flood Noldorin settlements. Maedhros is angry. There will be war if Menegroth does not take action, and soon."

"Then why does the council delay?" Galadriel exclaimed.

"Because there are those in this city, in the King's own council who wish for war," Venessiel told her. "Long have they wanted war against the Noldor. Long have they wished to reclaim the lands that Thingol bequeathed to your cousins. They want to expand Doriath to its borders of old, to reclaim all of Beleriand for the Sindar and in their foolishness, and their hunger for war, and their rampant jingoism they never doubt that we could lose. But Celeborn has told me of the weapons of war that he saw at Himlad, of the superior armor that your cousins' soldiers wear. Perhaps before the Battle of Beleriand we could have won such a battle, even if the casualties were high. But now we have not the numbers and, what is more, asking our soldiers to kill other elves would be a terrible trial for them. Even if they returned victorious they would be defeated in spirit. And what then if we had to fight Morgoth? It would be the ruin of this nation, Galadriel." Her words spilled forth like a flood and Galadriel could see the worry evident in her eyes. Before she had doubted Venessiel's motivation, now she had no doubts of her sincerity.

"You want my help?" Galadriel asked.

"You are the only one with the knowledge, the power, the ties to do what must be done. Celeborn has said that you believe Maedhros and Maglor can be reasoned with. Is that true?" Galadriel nodded.

"They are rational," she said, "mostly unplagued by the madness that haunts their younger brothers. I believe a treaty could be arrived at if things are done in the correct fashion."

"Done properly, in the Noldorin way," Venessiel said, seeking clarification.

"Yes," Galadriel confirmed and then, haltingly, she said, "but I do not see how I can help."

Venessiel smiled. "Your help is indispensible Galadriel and I am right, aren't I, that you want to help?"

"I do," Galadriel affirmed.

"But you cannot, not yet," Venessiel cautioned her. "There is still the matter that you are not in a suitable position to do so. As much as we may desire your assistance, we cannot accept it unless you can attain a position that people see as suitable. It would not go over well if a laundress were suddenly appointed to a diplomatic position. I can help you," she said, "if you can attain a higher position, some position from which I could reasonably and without suspicion take you into my service." Galadriel nodded and Venessiel was glad to see the determination in her eyes.

"I will," Galadriel said, "I swear it. I will not see any harm come to this kingdom if I can help it."

"I was hoping you would say that," Venessiel said with a smile and Galadriel could not tear her eyes from her. The lady's wrists glistened with golden bracelets and her earlobes dripped with rubies the size of robins' eggs. She was, Galadriel realized, exactly what she herself wanted to be, what Bainwen had spoken of: a woman who had drawn herself up under her own power, who had risen to become a respected member of the King's council, who had established herself as a force to be reckoned with, who allowed no one to walk on her, who was kind, and generous, and fashionable to boot.

"I know you want to fix things, Galadriel, and together we can!" She squeezed the Noldo's hands. "I believe in that future too, with all of the peoples of Beleriand, Noldor and Sindar, Nando and Avari, working together for the good of all." Venessiel stood with a smile and, wonder of wonders, Galadriel found herself smiling back at an elf she had never expected to understand, never expected to like.

"No longer will I call you Finarfiniel, or daughter of Earwen," Venessiel said, "for I know myself what it is to wish for independence, and so I will call you Galadriel and Galadriel only," She said.

"It seems you have nearly read my mind," Galadriel told her with a smile.

"We are not so different, you and I," Venessiel told her. "Be well, Galadriel, until we meet again."

"Yes, your highness," Galadriel said, sinking into a quick bow as the Sinda swept away. She returned to the laundry to finish her work but Paniel never returned and, soon enough, the day began to dawn and Galadriel returned to the servants' quarters, feeling as though her mind were on fire.

Some of the other servants were still up and milling about when she returned and they nodded towards her in greeting as she moved to her bed, tugging off her uniform and pulling on the shift that she usually slept in. A glance towards Paniel's bed revealed that the girl was there, her back turned in Galadriel's direction, asleep already it seemed. Galadriel slipped into her own bed, eager herself for sleep but, upon hearing a now very familiar hissing sound, turned over and scooted to the edge of her bed. She found, as she had expected, Bainwen curled up on her own bed, facing her, eyes alight. She could not help but smile at how eager her friend appeared.

"Naneth! Paniel came back all in a huff!" Bainwen whispered.

"Yes, we had a bit of an argument," Galadriel confided. "I tried to apologize to her for how badly we have been getting along but she didn't want to hear any of it."

"She's just a bad apple," Bainwen quipped.

"I feel rather sorry for her actually," Galadriel confided in her friend.

"I suppose one could feel sorry for her," Bainwen said. "But then again, some people are just crooked as a dog's hind leg."

"That is true as well," Galadriel replied before sighing. She had already decided what she must do and now she had to make her excuses to her friend. "Look, Bainwen, I cannot suffer work in the laundry anymore," Galadriel whispered. "It isn't doing either me or her any good and I think the mere sight of me causes her pain. We simply cannot be around each other and I think I might be of more use elsewhere. Perhaps Madam Lhaineth can get me a transfer somewhere, anywhere I'll be of more use, where Paniel won't constantly be interfering in my work any longer, where I won't be bothering her."

Bainwen looked crestfallen, as she had expected. "Well I'll be very sorry if you go," Bainwen said. "But I can see how that makes sense. It isn't as if you can ever get anything done anyway, what with her constantly messing with you."

"That's just what I mean," Galadriel said. "And I want to do something good, something really useful. But I will miss working with you."

"It isn't as though we won't be able to talk though," Bainwen said, brightening. There was nothing that could keep her down for very long. "My bed will still be beside yours after all. What are you thinking? I do hope you'll do something fantastic."

"I think I would like to be a dancer," Galadriel confessed, "you know, the girls who go to parties and entertain."

"You're mad!" Bainwen gasped, her eyes going wide. "Those only go to the very best of the best, to the people who have put in a lot of time. And Madam Lhaineth is not particularly fond of you either!"

"I know!" Galadriel said. "But I used to dance all the time in Aman and I have been here now over 50 years, that must count for something. Besides, Madam Lhaineth doesn't have the final word, the dance master will."

Bainwen sighed, looking a bit concerned. "I don't know Naneth," she said, "perhaps it would not be wise to get your hopes up."

"Don't you worry about me," Galadriel said, reaching out to pat her friend's hand.

"Well then," Bainwen said with a grin. "Don't forget about me when you're livin in high cotton."

"I promise I won't," Galadriel assured her.

*****

"Uncle?" Celeborn asked hesitantly, for he had merely entered the council chamber to retrieve a ledger that he thought he had left there the other day and, finding it dark, he had assumed it deserted, however, upon entering he had seen that a figure sat hunched at the head of the table and, as he approached, he had seen that it was Thingol, looking for all the world as if he bore the weight of all Arda upon his shoulders.

The king looked up at last at the sound of his nephew's voice, though he must certainly have been aware of his approach. "Ah, Celeborn!" He said with mock joviality. "How good to see you. You have been in such high spirits lately…" but his voice trailed off as though it was too much effort for him to preserve the façade of happiness any longer.

"Uncle, you told me to come to you if ever I was troubled," Celeborn began kindly, his heart disturbed by the sorrow that seemed to burden his uncle, "I would ask the same courtesy."

"Of course, of course," Thingol said, sighing, and Celeborn sat, waiting, but the King did not speak for a very long while, looking off into the distance, as if he dwelled in deep memory or in visions of what was yet to come.

"Sometimes I feel that we are all actors upon a stage," Thingol whispered, his voice hoarse, "and that our time is nearly played out."

"What do you mean?" Celeborn asked him.

"What sort of King am I that I cannot protect my people?" Thingol asked softly and Celeborn knew that he must tread carefully, for Thingol did not allow anyone to see him so doubtful and unsure, even those he loved most. "Our people in the north are suffering because of what Maedhros is doing and I cannot send them aid or support for fear of inciting war with the Noldor. How is it that I have become so weak that I cannot assist my people in need?"

"These Noldor, Celeborn…" he continued, "I have heard from my spies of the war machines that they have, great catapults and the like, trebuchets." The king sighed. "And their armor, you said, is of plate steel, nigh impenetrable, crafted by superior craftsmen. How can we compare to them? We are weak."

"Perhaps…"Celeborn ventured to say, "perhaps we could bring the dwarves back. They know how to craft such armor. And, if they are indeed hiring orc mercenaries to attack our wardens, such an offer could renew their alliance with Doriath and put a stop to all of this."

"Perhaps," Thingol said with a sigh. "I will not deny that the thought has crossed my mind.

"And do not think of us as weak," Celeborn said. "We were a great empire once, spanning all of Beleriand and we shall be so again. Do not lose faith, Uncle, for the Doriathrim fight with spirit and with a love of this land. They would not hesitate to die for it."

"I worry that they may have no other choice," Thingol whispered, "if things come to war with Maedhros."

"Let us not make any assumptions," Celeborn implored his uncle. "Maedhros has not made any threats. Indeed, we have had no communications from him at all. We cannot know what is in his heart. It may be that there is a middle ground we can walk, a way to make peace between our peoples rather than choosing one side or the other."

"If Maedhros's heart is anything like Curufin's then we have great reason to fear," Thingol replied.

"But Galadriel said that Maedhros and Maglor can be reasoned with. Perhaps we can do so," Celeborn said.

"If only that were possible," Thingol said, "but my hands are tied by the council in terms of international affairs."

"And if you were to overrule them, to issue a decree?" Celeborn asked but he knew Thingol's answer even before he made it.

"They are the representatives of the common people, Celeborn," the King said. "It is Doriathrin tradition that it should be so, that the common people should have that voice and Saeros, in particular, represents the rights of the green elves. When I look back, when I remember the attitude that I took towards Denethor's people at the Battle of Beleriand, towards the Avari I cannot think of it as anything other than an unpardonable sin. It took your disregard for your own life, charging in to save them when I would not, that reminded me of what was right, that showed me the error of my ways."

"What I did was reckless, and foolish, and nearly cost many lives, including yours and mine," Celeborn said.

"And it was the right thing to do," Thingol said. The two of them fell silent.

"Nay," the king shook his head, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "I will not revoke their rights, even if it means that others will die, for that is an assured path to tyranny. And, what is more, I fear myself, for it is easy to become a tyrant if one only takes a step in that direction, if one grows too accustomed to power and cares too little about the interests of others. The sons of Feanor are example enough of that." They sat in silence and then Celeborn spoke again.

"I do not want to raise your hopes only to have them dashed…" he began, hesitantly, "but Beleg and I have spoken of this matter on a few occasions and he believes that he may know someone who can assist us, a friend of his. Beyond that I do not wish to say but I want you to know that I have not forgotten, that I am seeking a resolution to this matter." Thingol nodded grimly.

"You will…keep me updated on the matter?" He asked.

"Of course," Celeborn replied. Thingol sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"And what of Galadriel?" He asked. "How does she fare?"

"Better than I would have expected," Celeborn said. "I know that there was some trouble at first, but it seems that she is settling in now. I spoke with her a few years ago and she seems to be doing significantly better after that."

"Did you?" Thingol asked, interested, and then he laughed softly. "So you do heed my advice on occasion."

"Yes," Celeborn nodded. "You were right. The anger…it was destroying me, and destroying her. It was time to let it go."

Thingol closed his eyes, nodding, and then opened them again. "That is good," he said. "That is very good. I am proud of you Celeborn. I could never have asked for a better son." The prince dropped his gaze, slightly embarrassed by the rare praise.

"I felt very much better immediately after I had spoken to her," Celeborn told him and Thingol smiled a little.

"That is good," he said once more. "Celeborn?"

"Yes uncle?" The prince replied.

"Do take care not to meddle in her affairs overly much. This must be her doing and hers alone. She needs this. She needs to make these decisions herself. Do not take that from her."

"I know, Uncle," Celeborn said, reaching out to touch his uncle's hand briefly, "I only converse with her, nothing more. I have not told her of Maedhros's threats of war or any of that business." They sat in silence for a while and Celeborn almost thought that Thingol had fallen asleep when the King spoke again.

"Celeborn, thank you but I believe I would like to be alone for a little while now," Thingol said and Celeborn stood.

"Of course, Uncle. If…if there is ever anything that I can do to help…"

"I will let you know," Thingol said with a brief smile, closing his eyes once more as Celeborn stood to quit the room.

"Celeborn?" He heard the King's weak voice once more as he set his hand upon the door and turned back.

"Uncle?" He asked, worried, for there was an uncharacteristic tint of fear to Thingol's voice.

"Do…see that you take care of yourself," Thingol said. "Do not take any unnecessary risks, no foolish gambles with your life." He sighed, feigning a smile. "You must forgive me my worry. I fear it comes with age."

"Of course, Uncle," Celeborn said with a nod, but the King's words had struck him as exceedingly odd and his worries did not cease once he had left Thingol. Instead, he found himself aimlessly wandering the corridors of the palace, though even now the day was dawning. The majority of his people had already gone to sleep and the peace and silence of the palace provided some comfort to his troubled soul. For he himself had often worried over the state of his kingdom since even before the letters from Maedhros had started arriving.

He wondered why it was so impossible for him to find even a moment of peace. It seemed he was always out of the skillet and into the fire. He felt as though the pressure of all of this was about to overwhelm him and he could not blame Thingol for feeling so disheartened, though it had rattled him to the core to see his uncle in such a state. Thingol showed no weakness, even to those he loved most of all. Trust, Celeborn mused, that was yet another thing that a King could not afford, yet another reason he did not wish to be one.

He sighed, staring up wearily at the edges of the sky tinged in soft pink and the sun, which was just beginning to traverse the horizon. He had wandered into a grove of stone beeches, their magnificent emerald leaves refracting the hues of the dawn and he closed his eyes against that color, feeling the glow of it soft on the inside of his eyelids.

"You must be deep in thought indeed to have failed to notice me," he heard the cool, calm voice behind him and, startled, turned towards her. Something in his heart cried out, reaching for her like a beggar yearning for water or an injured man wanting for healing, remembrance of comfort.

She was standing in a doorway of the courtyard, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned lazily against the doorframe. She was wearing her uniform and a white cap, her sleeves rolled up; it very much looked as though she had just come from work and he reminded himself that she most probably had. The light of the morning glinted across her golden hair. And, it seemed to blind him for a moment in which his vision turned to a searing white, giving way at last to open ocean, white tipped waves, gulls soaring overhead, and a young, golden-haired maiden piloting a sailboat with the expertise of a hardened sailor. She wore salt-stained breeches and a white cotton shirt that billowed in the breeze. She was barefoot, tanned dark by the sun, her hair a brilliant banner behind her and she leapt up to grab the rope attached to the boom, hauling it to the starboard side and they swept out across the water. Galadriel…he reached out, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her as though she were a ghost and then the vision was gone and he was standing once more in a courtyard, watching that same girl leaning against a doorway.

"Are you…are you alright?" She asked, concern flitting across her face.

"Yes, yes," he said with false confidence, clasping his hands behind his back as he schooled his features into a more serene look. "I simply did not notice you there."

"I saw you on my way back to the servants' quarters looking as though you were quite lost within your own palace," she said with a small smile as she moved to sit on one of the fountains. And, though he did not truly know why he did so, he moved to join her on the ledge there.

"I thought you were the one of us more concerned with being found out," he said. It was a deliberate distraction.

"They are all asleep," she said, "and anyway, let them say whatever they want about me. I don't care anymore." She shrugged. "To tell you the truth, it was no accident that I found you. I sought you out with the intentions of scolding you but, seeing you so troubled, I could not find it within my heart to speak angry words to you."

"Over what?" He asked her.

"I have spoken to Venessiel," she said, "and she told me everything, about the letters from Maedhros, about how the Sindar in the north have been antagonizing, and rightfully so, my cousins, how war may come upon us and, while there are those who delight in that prospect, both you and she believe that Doriath could not weather such a storm."

"Oh," Celeborn merely said, sighing, realizing that she knew everything Thingol had instructed him not to tell her, his shoulders seeming to fall under the weight of that wretched burden, confirming that everything Venessiel had told her was, indeed, true.

"It made me feel as if I could not trust you, Celeborn. You need not spare my feelings," Galadriel said gently. "I can take a hit just as well as you can. I am very aware of what your people think of me and my people. Do not think that you must protect me."

"It is only that I hate seeing you hurt so very much," he said. It was not entirely the truth, though part of it was true. Mostly it was that he, like Thingol, had not wanted to force her hand by making her feel as though there was a need to panic. It seemed that Venessiel had no such compunctions and Celeborn found himself feeling very agitated with the minister of finance. Still, he held his tongue, for Thingol was right: this was Galadriel's choice and hers alone; he would not rob her of it for all the world and, as she had said herself, he needed to trust that she was capable of making her own decisions and bearing the consequences of them. He had already told her what she needed to know about Venessiel, repeating it would not be of any benefit to either of them. And Galadriel knew her own faults well enough.

"I know," she told him, reaching out to rub his hand. The action comforted him somewhat but his heart was still very troubled. It was pleasant and different, he thought to himself, to share such a thing with Galadriel and receive understanding in return rather than haughty pride and anger. Perhaps it was possible, after all, for people to change and grow. "But I want to help you, to help Doriath if I am able," she said. "Despite my wretched pride, that desire to help is, after all, one of the things that most motivated me to return to this city. Will you not tell me what is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, it is nothing," he said dismissively, for here she was again, asking him to take some leap of faith, to trust her, to breach some chasm that he was not sure he could cross. _Did I not ask the same of her once upon a time?_ And yet, despite having forgiven each other, it was not so easy to overcome their past, not so easy to forget the horrid fights they had had and the volatile reactions Galadriel had once upon a time expressed to anything that made her uncomfortable.

Galadriel sighed, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I would hope you would give me more credit, Celeborn," she whispered. "I know well enough when something is bothering you and, what is more, there is none who knows a lie better than I do," in that simple sentence she had managed to lay bare the crux of the issue. "However, I also know what it is to want to keep some things to oneself and so I will leave you if that is what you wish. For I can not blame you if you do not trust me."

"No," he said, his throat dry, grasping at her fingers and catching them as she stood. She paused, looking down at him as though she could hardly believe it and then, slowly, she seated herself beside him once more. There was something about her that was comforting, that made him feel as though he were safe despite all that had passed between them. And perhaps it was because of what she had just said; he owed her nothing and neither did she owe him anything. There was no one who knew him better save his own family. But with her he did not have to be the responsible brother, or the wise counselor, or the concerned lover, or the battlefield commander; with her he just…was. It inspired him to give voice to concerns that he would otherwise have kept secret.

Galadriel looked up at the sun, closing her eyes, enjoying the warmth of its rays upon her face and Celeborn, he looked at her. "I fear…" he began, "I wonder if this kingdom has at last reached a breaking point of sorts. We have been fighting for so long, so very, very long and sometimes I cannot help but think that it is only a matter of time. A bridge can only bear so much weight and…" his voice trailed off, not because he had nothing left to say, but because there was too much to say and he knew not at all where he ought to begin.

"What inspired these thoughts?" Galadriel asked, a light and concerned touch upon his arm.

"To be perfectly honest, they have been there for a very long while," he admitted. "After the Battle of Beleriand our troops and resources were so depleted that we could not even send aid to Cirdan. Before that I had never worried about the stability of this kingdom but once the doubts began to creep in I was unable to stop them. I…" he sighed. "The kinslaying, that foolish blunder at Himlad, now this business with Maedhros at Himring…it all weighs too heavily upon Thingol, upon me. I do not know how we shall endure, how we can help this kingdom to recover when we are so deeply mired in such troubles. My people, they depend upon me for safety and I cannot give it to them. Indeed, things may come to war as Venessiel has said. It looks more and more likely with every passing year."

"Celegorm spoke of it to me when he came to Nargothrond while I was there, to celebrate its completion. While his words were harsh, I have great difficulty believing that Maglor and Maedhros hold the same opinions as he does," Galadriel said.

"So you still believe it would be possible to treat with them then?" He asked.

"Yes," she said, "I do, and I told Venessiel as much too." Celeborn sighed and then, simply because there was some wretched irony in knowing that they might achieve something if only they were allowed to act, he found that he could not help but laugh.

"Well, if only we could get Saeros to agree then we might really be on to something." Celeborn chuckled, beginning to feel a bit better after all for having spoken to her.

"Is that so?" She asked him. "I do seem to recall him being particularly unpleasant though he was never more than a passing acquaintance."

"He has six of the counselors in his pocket and, try though I might, I seem unable to pry even a single one of them from his clutches," Celeborn confessed. They were quiet for a long while, merely sitting in each other's company. "I need a two vote majority to pass the measure. I am only one away but it is an impossibility."

"I will look into his heart," she said then, turning to look at him, "and see what is there."

"No, Galadriel," he stammered, "I could never ask such a thing of you. I would not wish to interfere…"

"You do not need to protect me, Celeborn. I offer because I am willing," she said, "because I want to. I would not have done so otherwise. This kingdom is mine as well as yours and I would do her good, if I am at all able. What is more, I am doing it not only for you, but for myself, for Finrod, for Thingol and Melian and all of my friends here, though some of them are now estranged."

"Ah, my apologies," Celeborn replied, embarrassed at having assumed her decision hinged upon him, lapsing into silence. Perhaps he had presumed intimacy where there was none. Perhaps he had grossly overstepped his bounds in assuming that it was not improper for him to confide in her.

"No need for apologies," she said. "What was it that brought on all of these dark thoughts?"

"I happened upon my uncle," he told her, "and he looked so very weak, so very worn down that I almost did not recognize him for a moment."

"But I gave him the Elessar," Galadriel said, surprised, turning towards Celeborn, her eyes meeting his as a puzzled look creased her brow. "It should protect him from weariness…"

"He put it away," Celeborn said, shaking his head. "He does not trust gemstones nor Noldorin craft." It was rather an inflammatory statement. He had no doubt that two centuries ago she would have flown into a rage over such words but, to his surprise, Galadriel only laughed.

"Does he call it sorcery?" She asked.

"Aye," Celeborn nodded.

"The sorcerous elves," she said in mock seriousness with a hint of reminiscence. "I had almost forgotten that your people used to call us that." She laughed. "You must admit that there is something comical about him fearing a gemstone but having no trepidation whatsoever about sharing his bed with a Maia." That got a chuckle out of Celeborn.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose you are right."

"It might be the news I brought that troubles him then," she said.

"The information regarding the dwarves?" Celeborn asked.

"Well…yes," she said, looking a bit puzzled, "but more than that I meant the vision….Do you not know? Did…did he say nothing to you?"

"What do you mean?" Celeborn asked, suddenly growing even more concerned, for Thingol had said nothing to him of any visions at all, though he had seen, of late, that there was a certain sadness in the King's eyes when he looked upon him. Suddenly, Celeborn had the sinking feeling that this vision, whatever it was, concerned him. "What did you see?" He asked, his words quick, his throat dry, but it was Galadriel who appeared greatly troubled now and she wrung her hands in distress.

"Perhaps he was right," she stammered. "Perhaps it is better that you do not know. I would not have said anything at all but…I assumed he must have told you, that you knew."

"Nay," Celeborn said, taking her arm, "if it concerns me then I would know it. And yet, he already felt as though he knew what she would say."

"I…I foresaw your death," she told him, meeting his eyes with sadness. "I saw you dead in the halls of Menegroth, the walls painted with blood, and echoing all around the language of the dwarves."

"I have only just now encouraged him to bring them back to Menegroth," Celeborn said breathlessly. Galadriel could feel that his hand on her arm was shaking. "Are you sure?" He asked her and she shook her head quickly.

"No, Celeborn, I am not. I am not even sure that it was you, though I think it was. But the hair was silver, of that I am certain." His grip on her arm tightened. "Do not put too much stock in it!" She rushed to say. "I have had many visions that have not come to pass and, what is more, they are only possible outcomes. Perhaps history will not take that course!"

"Yes, yes, of course," Celeborn stammered, but he did not sound convinced. And, afterwards, as she walked back to the servants' quarters, Galadriel could not quite shake the fear that gripped her heart. She lay awake for a long while, staring up at the ceiling above her, and wondered if Celeborn was awake as well, if he was having the same thoughts as she. She half regretted telling him, for she had sought to comfort him and instead she had laid another burden upon his shoulders, but she knew him well and she knew that what he had said was true: he would rather have known.

Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of Finrod's dark oath and of the fear that had enveloped Celeborn when she had told him what she had seen. It was blasphemous, she knew, but in her heart she cursed the halls of Mandos for taking life from those who were loath to have it torn from them. And then there was the darker thought that haunted her, that Celeborn's association with her might have brought the curse of Mandos down upon him, that even though he was free of her now he may still be bound to her fate. Yet she was determined now, more determined than she had ever been that she must succeed, that she must find some way to turn the tide and perhaps Venessiel had offered her a chance to stop the war that was nearly upon them, a chance to save Celeborn's life.


	22. The King's Daughter, The Golden Girl

  
**The King's Daughter, The Golden Girl**

In Cavern's Shade: 22nd Chapter

*****

"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge  
what a man will store up in his ghostly heart."

– The Divine Comedy, Dante

*****

**Author's Note:** There are some REALLY IMPORTANT footnotes at the end of this chapter so be sure you check them out.

*****

"How many more times will you bring this issue to a vote, Celeborn?" Saeros cried, banging his fist upon the council table. "This council has spoken. The vote will not be altered."

"Until I have impressed upon all those present the direness of this situation," Celeborn replied, doing his best to remain calm. "We have had yet another letter from Maedhros and this one is far less courteous than the last. Maedhros is reputed to be reasonable but I worry that we are wasting away whatever meager good will may have existed between our peoples. Let us meet with him and broker a treaty before it becomes impossible to do so."

"The terms of your proposed treaty are weak," Saeros replied. "You ask only that they cease disturbing our people and our towns. We must make them stop their mining entirely."

"They would be far less likely to agree to that," Celeborn said. "And what is more, that measure is unnecessary. It is entirely possible for them to still mine ore from the mountains so long as they do so in a responsible way, without clear cutting the forest."

"That is true," Fingaeron contributed. "When the petty dwarves still lived in the region of Nargothrond they did not cut the forests when they dug their mines and thus their mining operations had no adverse affects on the surrounding region."

"This is more than a matter of what is possible and what is not," Saeros replied. "This is a matter of national pride. This is about what is best for Doriath. The lands that Maedhros's people occupy now are Doriath's. They are ours by right. The gold that is in those mountains, the gold that the Noldor are mining is ours by right. Let us return Doriath to what she was of old, a vast empire stretching throughout the entirety of Beleriand. Our people should be free to settle wherever they like in their native land without fear of Noldorin encroachment."

"And what is more," Tinuil, the Minister of Commerce, chimed in, "have we not heard that the sons of Feanor go about saying that we lost those lands because we were not strong enough to keep them? Let us show them the strength of Doriath! We will make them rue the day that they threatened us with war."

"We would need to outfit every Doriathrin soldier with a new set of armor. We would need to build war machines." Mablung protested.

"And what is so wrong with that?" Saeros asked. "It would provide jobs for many elves."

"We do not have enough elves anymore to fill those jobs," Venessiel said, clearly annoyed.

"Our people are fighting for their motherland. Their spirit and will to fight would easily surmount such obstacles as Noldorin armor and weapons," Saeros countered.

"You do realize that you would be asking our soldiers to kill other elves don't you?" Venessiel countered, incensed. "I hardly see how you could think that acceptable and still bear so much hatred towards the Lady Galadriel." A great grumbling arose in the council chamber in response to that hated name.

"That is a slippery slope Venessiel," Saeros said. "What if the Noldor were to attack Doriath? Would you argue against fighting them then? They will have their boots on our throats soon enough if we do not stand up against them. And besides, I do not understand how you could account their lives the equal of ours, for we have not slain elves but they have done so and it was not out of self defense. Our souls are more righteous than theirs. We would triumph."

"All fear are equal in the eyes of Illuvatar!" Venessiel shot back.

Thingol sat at the end of the table, a hand on his chin and a dark expression on his face. He knew that there were many of his own people who bore resentment towards him for having ceded the northern lands to the sons of Feanor. His council members all knew that he agreed with Celeborn's position because of his previous votes but he was reluctant to speak his mind openly in support of it to make an argument. Such a thing would most likely only increase the volatility of the opposition and make the path that much harder for Celeborn and his supporters. It was better, in his experience, to deal with such divisive issues in a more covert and secretive manner and yet Celeborn had an unfortunate habit of trying to force things. He was losing patience with all of them. The king sighed.

"We have not the strength for war," Mablung said, "not anymore. Our numbers are insufficient. We have still not built our army back up to what it was before the Battle of Beleriand. And besides, their armor, their weaponry, their siege engines and instruments of war are superior to ours."

"According to Prince Celeborn," Saeros replied, "and there are many who have cause to doubt the veracity of anything he says. His loyalties have been compromised." Some of the counselors raised their eyebrows in surprise that Saeros would dare speak of a Prince of Doriath in such a way, and before his very face at that.

"I would beg you recall that my daughter went to Himlad as well and corroborated that report," Thingol said. That put an end to Saeros's argument rather quickly, or so it seemed. Luthien was above reproach. But Celeborn stood, slowly, and all eyes turned to him as though they hardly dared believe it. Until this point he had always kept himself above Saeros's accusations. But now he had had enough.

"What do you mean to say, Saeros?" He asked, his voice deathly quiet. The council chamber went silent as a tomb and even Thingol, it seemed, dared not utter a word. Celeborn stood, awaiting the reply.

"You know what I mean," Saeros retorted, but everyone there had seen the unease that had crept into the Nando's eyes. Celeborn would not be letting him get away with his insinuations this time. He had had enough of this challenging of his authority. Perhaps they thought he had grown soft but he was still the same elf who had marshaled Thingol's army in the Battle of Beleriand, still the one whom Thingol had seen fit to name his crown prince.

"I think you had better say it so that we can all be clear," Celeborn whispered. "Go on, Saeros, say it." The Nando was silent. "I command you," Celeborn said.

"You are biased in favor of the Noldor," Saeros said, "because you bedded one of them. For all we know you could be associating with her still."

"Say her name, Saeros," Celeborn said. "Go on, say it. Let us have no ambiguity." The Nando remained silent as if he could hardly believe this was happening, as if he thought someone would swoop in and rescue him.

"Galadriel," Saeros ground out at last, seeming to realize that he would not, in fact, be being rescued this day.

"Thank you, Saeros," Celeborn said as though he were speaking to a very young child.

The prince looked up, glancing around at the other ministers. "Are you all clear on that? Have you all understood?" There were nervous nods around the table.

"Let me say it just to be sure," Celeborn continued. "In the year 52 of the first age I took Galadriel, previously known as Artanis, the sister of Finrod Felagund and the daughter of Finarfin, high king of the Noldor, and Earwen, princess of the Teleri to my bed. She lived with me until the year 70, when we learned of the kinslaying and when she was exiled to Nargothrond. It is true, as Saeros here has been so kind to point out, that she did, in fact, share my bed that entire time and in the course of that time we did pursue a romantic, and therefore, sexual relationship." The ministers fidgeted nervously but Celeborn was not about to let them off the hook. If secrecy and insinuation and innuendo were there powers then he would strip them of them, he would lay everything out bare on the table, he would show them that he had nothing to hide by hiding nothing.

"It is also true that she and I are not married," he continued, "that we are not bound to one another in marriage, and that, despite what physical practices we may have taken part in, I do not, nor have I ever at any time had sexual intercourse with Galadriel. If any of you have cause to doubt the veracity of what I have said I would invite you now to look into my eyes and observe that there is no evidence there of a bond of marriage. Is there anyone here who would like to take advantage of this opportunity?" He was met with nervous shakes of the head and a mumbled chorus of "no."

"And what about you, Saeros?" He asked, fixing the Nando with a curious stare. "Have you any doubts?"

"No," Saeros mumbled, glancing up at him briefly though he seemed unable to hold the prince's gaze for very long.

"Are you certain?" Celeborn asked with feigned concern. "If there are any doubts that linger in your mind I shall sit down this very instant and draw up a list detailing every single thing that Galadriel and I did. If you are still unsatisfied then I shall send for the lady herself this instant and I am sure she can recount them in detail for you. I am sure that every minister here would be happy to sit and wait and listen to the report, wouldn't you all?" It was not a question. It was a command. He looked up and saw each and every head bob in reluctant affirmation.

"Is that what you wish, Saeros?"

"No, your highness," Saeros mumbled, eyes downcast.

"My apologies, Saeros," Celeborn said, "you will have to speak up. I am afraid that your constant complaints have nearly made me go deaf as a dwarf."

"I assure you that is unnecessary, Your highness," Saeros said a little more loudly.

"Saeros, I believe you have forgotten that I am the crown prince," Celeborn reminded him.

"That is not what I wish, Your Royal Highness," Saeros replied. He dared not meet Celeborn's gaze.

"Well, if that isn't what you wanted then what do you want?" Celeborn asked.

"Nothing, Your Royal Highness," Saeros replied.

"Then I trust the matter is settled?" Celeborn asked, observing the chorus of frantic nods around the table. "Well now Saeros, it seems that you have made everyone extremely uncomfortable," Celeborn noted. "I hope that it does not happen again." The counselors remained silent as Celeborn resumed his seat. "What is more," he continued, "I do, in fact, continue to associate with Galadriel, though I no longer do so in a romantic fashion. She is my friend. Is there anyone here who has a problem with that?" They all shook their heads.

"I shall be sure to inform you all," Celeborn said, "of any and all of my future romantic liaisons whether it be with Galadriel or with some other lady. Indeed, if you so wish it I will extend an invitation to you to observe said liaisons so long as it means I never have to deal with this sort of rubbish again. Will that be necessary?" Heads shook frantically. "I am sorry," Celeborn said, "I don't believe I could hear you."

"No, Your Royal Highness," came the chorus of voices.

"Very well," Celeborn said, "then let us proceed." He noticed that Thingol seemed to be only barely managing to suppress his laugher.

"I will take the vote now," Thingol called suddenly and all of his council members turned to him with looks of surprise, for they had clearly expected to be allowed to carry their arguments out until they had worn them out, but he was grateful that they had sense enough not to protest. Thingol saw no use in beating a dead horse and besides, he hardly expected to hear anything worthwhile anyway, considering that Celeborn had just cleaned the floor with all of them. The tally was as he had expected, seven in favor and six against. They still did not have a two vote majority. "Very well," he said. "Celeborn, please mark the vote in the ledger. That will be all for today I think."

He could tell that Celeborn was a bit miffed at the vote as he sat by the king's side, darkly brooding, after the others had all left. Thingol, on the other hand, was laughing so hard that tears were leaking from his eyes.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had it in you!" The king gasped. "I should have known better than to doubt you. Their faces…!" He could hardly breathe from laughing so hard. "And here you were all concerned about having to subterfuge to get them to do anything. I rather think you have underestimated yourself, nephew. It seems that the leash of that dog is quite firmly in your hand." His nephew just stared straight ahead, glaring, but Thingol knew that Celeborn was pleased by the small grin that danced around the corners of his mouth.

"You and Mablung are Thingol's little pets, kept in this gilded cage," Beleg said. "I do not know how you can stand living in this city." Indeed, it had been a while since Beleg had been in Menegroth.

"Please tell me that you summoned me because you have some good news," Celeborn implored Beleg, sitting on the bench across the table from his friend. "I could certainly use some of late."

"Always to the point aren't you Celeborn." Beleg said, "and yes, I do, or so I hope." Celeborn hailed one of the tavern girls and she brought them two beers.

"I believe you may know my friend. Her name is Nellas, a chieftainess of one of our towns in the north. Her town has been one of those particularly hard hit by the mudslides."

"I have never met her but I know of her," Celeborn replied. "She has been particularly critical of our policy of doing nothing and she has written many a letter to the council begging for aid from Menegroth."

"Yes, she told me as much," Beleg said.

"I had thought, when you said that it was an 'old friend' of yours that you would speak to that you meant you had known this person for a very long time. But Nellas is quite young is she not? Perhaps I am mistaken, I have only heard her name a few times." Celeborn said.

"No, you are not mistaken," Beleg replied. "I ought to have said she is a dear friend, for what you have said is true; she is young. I suppose I must be an old friend to her, for she has known me all of her life but her life has been but a small part of mine, though not so unimportant as the brevity of it would suggest." He fell silent but he had said enough that Celeborn understood.

"I never knew," he replied.

"No," Beleg said, "I do not speak about it. She had no interest in my proposal. " The two of them were quiet for a while.

"I am very sorry for having brought it up," Celeborn murmured, meeting his friend's eyes. "I hope I have not injured you, my friend."

Beleg shook his head and smiled. "Do not worry over me, Celeborn. I assure you that I am quite fine. It was a while ago and I am certainly not the first to have had my hopes dashed by a woman."

"Yes," Celeborn replied, "that is a feeling I know well." But he felt intolerably awkward for having said anything.

"I went to visit her," Beleg said and she said that she is very willing to come and speak to the council, to present a first hand account of what is happening, to bring some of her people with her as well. Or else, she has said that she would be happy to have a party from Doriath come to her town and show them the destruction that has been wrought there to disperse any doubts they might have."

"That is very good news, Beleg," Celeborn said, nodding. "You have my thanks. But, it would cause too much of an uproar, I think, if we were to attempt to take a party out there."

"Then I shall arrange for her to come here," Beleg said with a smile.

"I can do it if you would prefer," Celeborn said and he felt some relief, for it seemed that things were moving along at last.

"It is quite alright my friend," Beleg said, finishing off his beer. "You are under too much strain as it is and besides, as I have said, I do not mind. But I fear I must be going. You know how I can never stand to be in this city for too long." The march warden stood with a grin, slinging his great, black bow over his back once more and waved goodbye to his friend as he exited the tavern.

*****

"You wished to speak to me?" Madam Lhaineth said, looking extremely perturbed that her private time should be occupied in such a way, as she gazed at Galadriel over the top of her newspaper, a half empty glass of sherry at her right hand.

"Yes Madam," Galadriel replied politely. "I was hoping that you might allow me to try out for a position as a dancer." Madam Lhaineth had been sipping her sherry as Galadriel spoke and she almost choked on it at those words.

"You are delusional, Galadriel, if you think that you have earned such a high position," the chief maid spluttered.

"But Madam Lhaineth, consider it from this perspective," Galadriel said. "If I am out of the laundries then there will no longer be any conflict between Paniel and myself. You will not have to suffer any more of our disruptions. What is more, my training will then be turned over to the dance master and you need not have anything to do with me except house me here. I can assure you that I have the qualifications. I was a dancer in Aman and I have even danced before the court of Menegroth before. Indeed, I have dance before the Valar themselves. I can obtain letters of recommendation if you require it, from Princess Luthien, Queen Melian, the King, Prince Celeborn. I am certain they would all vouch for me if you ask them."

"I assure you that I am not on speaking terms with nobility," Madam Lhaineth said, as if she thought Galadriel quite mad. She set her newspaper down. She did not say yes, but she did also not say no and Galadriel could see that she was pondering the idea. She had, after all, appealed to the strongest of Madam Lhaineth's traits, her innate desire to deal with as little trouble or work as possible.

"You understand that the Sindar do not wish to see any of your…your Noldorin frivolities," Madam Lhaineth said at last, waving a hand in a gesture as if to show exactly how little she thought of Noldorin frivolities. "Do you know how to dance the traditional dances of the Sindar, of Doriath?"

"Of course," Galadriel replied, her heart racing.

"Of course…." Madam Lhaineth cued her.

"Of course Madam," Galadriel said. Madam Lhaineth seemed to muse over the idea for a moment longer.

"Very well…if it will get you off my back," she said. "I will arrange for the dance master to see you the day after tomorrow. And, if you embarrass me, so help me Valar I shall send you straight back to the scullery and have you scrubbing floors again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Madam Lhaineth!" Galadriel exclaimed in excitement. She could hardly believe that it had worked. "Perfectly clear! Thank you, thank you ever so much!" And she sprung up from her chair, bowing before going to the door but, just as she was about to exit, Madam Lhaineth called out to her once more.

"Galadriel?" Galadriel turned back.

"Yes Madam Lhaineth?" The dark haired Sinda did not look up from her paper.

"You may have the rest of this evening off to practice if you wish."

"My thanks Madam," Galadriel said with a grin, bowing her way out the door.

It had been a lie, well, only partially a lie, for she had certainly seen all of the traditional Sindarin dances before, many a time in fact, but she had never danced them herself, nor had she ever had the fortune to be educated in them. Couples dances she had learned and, indeed, many a time had she danced them with Celeborn. But the dances performed by handmaidens and dancers of the palace were different; they were dances that told the history of Doriath, of Beleriand, of Arda.

And so this state of affairs had led her to her current predicament as she hurried through the corridors of Menegroth, trying to appear far calmer than she felt, at last coming to a door before which she had not stood for a very long time, hoping beyond hope that she would be admitted. Celeborn was right, there was no shame in asking for help, in admitting that you could not do something on your own, and besides, she hardly had any choice.

She raised her hand and knocked, sinking into a bow as the handmaiden answered the door. "I beg my lady's pardon," she said demurely, "but might I be permitted an audience with the Princess Luthien?" The handmaiden looked at her with some vague look of distaste, wrinkling her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant.

"I am afraid the princess is not in at the moment," the handmaiden replied, "and besides, she is not in the habit of conversing with…laundresses." The lady's eyes had settled upon the badge of rank over Galadriel's breast. Galadriel wanted to roll her eyes, for of course she knew Luthien better than that, but she reminded herself that this was no time for pride, that attaining a position as a dancer might enable her to better help Doriath, to help Venessiel, to help Celeborn, and so she merely bowed again and thanked the handmaiden politely before going. A brief search of Thingol's hall yielded no signs of Luthien either but it was not hard for Galadriel to guess where she might be.

And so she turned to the forest in pursuit, exiting the great gates of Menegroth. Where would Luthien be? In the forest, yes, but there were so many places in the forest that she was fond of. To a meadow no doubt, filled with moonlight, where she might dance beneath the stars to calm her soul, a place filled with nightingales who would sing with her as she danced. Melian had taught her which birds have an affinity for which trees and Galadriel struggled to recall now. The owl loved the oak and the robin the maple, the eagle was fond of the pine and the sparrow of the willow. And the nightingale…the nightingale…

The owl he sits in an old oak tree,

Merry, merry king of the branches he,

With his eyes so bright,

Hunting in the night,

Oh wise old owl won't you play with me?

The robin sits in a maple tree,

Her breast as red as a bright poppy,

With her merry song,

Our days seem not so long,

Oh robin my friend won't you play with me?

The eagle sits in an old pine tree,

Majestic lord of the skies is he,

With his talons so bright,

He gives us such a fright,

Oh great eagle won't you play with me?

The sparrow sits in an old willow tree,

A sociable fellow and a friend is he,

With his wings so small,

He warms the hearts of all,

Little sparrow won't you play with me?

The nightingale sits…

The nightingale sits…

Galadriel groaned and hummed the song through again. It was a Sindarin children's song, one Melian had taught her long ago, and she felt very silly singing such a thing meant for elflings.

The nightingale sits in an old beech tree!

Queen of the singers and minstrels she!

With her melody so clear!

We have no reason for fear!

Fair nightingale won't you play with me!

Galadriel nearly shouted the last verse in excitement at having remembered it and several of the elves lounging about on the lawn, enjoying the moonlight, turned to look at her as if she were completely mad. The nightingale's love was for beech, of course, that was why Menegroth was so full of beeches, Thingol's tribute to his daughter. She felt very silly for not having remembered.

With a yelp of joy Galadriel hurried forward, stepping quickly and lightly over the fallen brush, for she knew where there was a meadow, surrounded by beeches in whose branches roosted the nightingales and, as she approached, she slowed her pace almost to a creeping, for she heard the sweet melody of the birds' song, and the even sweeter reply of Luthien's song, and it was with caution that she stepped slowly from behind a tree to stand at the edge of the clearing. For though more than 60 years had now passed since she had returned to Menegroth, she had not spoken to Luthien in all that time. Indeed, they had not spoken since she had been exiled and though Galadriel had always known Luthien to be quick to forgive, there was still a fearful quaking that resided in her heart, a guilt for having betrayed the best and most steadfast of friends, for Luthien had trusted in her when others had not, not even Celeborn.

The glade was bathed in moonlight so that the grass moved in the gentle midnight breeze like waves upon a silver sea, the very air itself seemed to glimmer in the moonbeams like an enchanted mist. And there, in the midst of the clearing, danced Luthien like a vision of some mythical being or goddess come to earth to dance away the midnight hours and disappear like a ghost at dawn, the twilight princess. There was something in her dance that was so private that Galadriel almost felt as though she had seen something far too intimate, that she should quit this place and never let Luthien know that she had followed her here. It felt as though she had intruded now, for Luthien seemed so free here, so unburdened, so at peace.

So thinking, Galadriel made to shrink back into the trees but Luthien had already seen her, or perhaps she had sensed her presence from the start, and she stopped, holding out her hands to her friend as if to say, 'come join me,' and, slowly, Galadriel stepped forward, walking to meet her friend in the center of the clearing. And as they clasped hands, Luthien began to lead her in a slow dance, singing a low, sorrowful song. But the words were of a language unknown to Galadriel, a version of Doriathrin that was older, perhaps, than her, and the two of them swayed in the night like reeds along a stream, peaceful, calm, until at last, almost without knowing it, they came to a stop.

"Why were you hiding?" Luthien said at last with a smile.

"I did not want to interrupt you," Galadriel confessed.

"Nonsense, I could never think of you as an interruption," the princess said, her eyes alight with the stars. Luthien had never seen the two trees and yet there was a goodness in her that none who had seen them possessed. How wrong Feanor had been, Galadriel thought, how very wrong to say that the Noldor were better, stronger, greater of strength and heart.

"Have you…are you not angry with me?" Galadriel asked in disbelief and Luthien only smiled, a smile full of benevolence.

"Angry?" Luthien asked, as though she hardly understood what the word meant. "I have already forgotten what I ought to be angry about!" And, eyes glimmering, she laughed, a sound like bells. The princess of Doriath had not the capacity for hatred.

Galadriel could not stand it any longer and, hardly understanding her own emotions, she burst into a veritable flood of tears. "I am so sorry!" She blubbered. "I don't deserve you. I don't deserve any of you." The tears were streaming down her face and Luthien looked at her as if she understood most profoundly. "I expected hatred from you, from Celeborn, from your father and mother, nay, I deserved hatred from those of you who loved me best and instead I have found forgiveness. I have done nothing, nothing to merit your kindness."

Luthien seemed to know what to do and drew her friend into her arms, holding her tight. "Oh Galadriel," she said, "don't you know that love has nothing to do with whether we deserve it or not?" And she held Galadriel for a long while as she sobbed, until the Noldo had nearly exhausted her tears.

"Luthien?" Galadriel asked.

"What is it?" The princess asked her, concerned, drawing back to wipe her friend's tears away.

"Do you think it possible that…that my parents still love me? I…I see my mother's face in my dreams, the way she looked at me the last time I saw her…as if I had cut her beating heart out of her chest and dashed it to the ground beneath my foot. My father…I cannot forget the pain in his eyes as he turned back on his way to Valinor, knowing it would be the last time he ever saw me."

"Possible?" Luthien's brow creased with concern. "They most definitely love you, Galadriel, else they would not have endured your leaving with such pain. A parent will always love their elfling, no matter how far they go, no matter if they do the most wretched of things. I am sure that my father and mother would love me no matter what I did. Even if I became as Curufin."

"You could never," Galadriel stammered, wiping away the still-flowing tears. "You are goodness itself embodied."

Luthien smirked. "Oh I don't know," she said. "Sometimes I do some very naughty things. When I was yet a young elf and Celeborn was only a babe I accidentally broke one of my mother's favorite vases. I knew my mother could never be angry with a baby and, fearing her anger, I took Celeborn and set him beside the broken vase so that when it was discovered it appeared as though he had done it. It was not until I heard his parents apologizing so profusely to my mother that I felt any remorse at all."

"Really?" Galadriel laughed. "I would never have believed you capable of such a thing."

"Really." Luthien said with a smile. "Are you feeling a bit better now?" Galadriel nodded.

"Then let us speak nothing more of sorrow!" Luthien laughed. "Let us be joyful from now on, my friend, for you are here and I am here and what do past grievances matter when life itself lies before us?" Looking into her eyes, glimmering with happiness in the starlight, Galadriel could find only joy in her heart, indeed, had Morgoth himself stood before Luthien now he would have been smiling.

"I was wondering…well, hoping rather, that if you are not too busy, if you don't mind," Galadriel stammered while Luthien looked at her expectantly. She paused, collecting her thoughts once more. "Luthien, I've asked for a position as a dancer and they're giving me a test tomorrow…"

"Well you will certainly be needing to know the traditional Sindarin dances then," Luthien said with a smile.

"Yes! That's what I was hoping," Galadriel replied and Luthien closed her eyes, a small smile upon her face as she began to sway gently back and forth.

"I will teach you all of them!" Luthien replied, "and you shall dance them most splendidly. I am sure of it! Now, do you know how the stars came to be hung in the sky?"

"Of course, Galadriel said, "it was Varda who kindled them there."

"Oh no silly!" Luthien laughed, spinning about, and Galadriel grinned. It was a surprise to her to learn that the Sindar might have a different version of events but she was eager to hear it.

"Then tell me how!" She called to her friend and Luthien danced back.

"Dance with me," the princess said, "let us dance the dance of the stars!" And she leapt through the meadow as if she were a child. "A long time ago," she said, "there were no stars at all to dance in the heavens and our whole earth was covered with a great blanket of darkness. In that darkness there played many elven children and most of all they loved to imitate the fantastic creatures of our world. Then one day a strange child came amongst them but they knew not fear and invited him to play with them whereupon he pretended to be a great bear, chasing the children through the forest." And now Luthien took on the aspect of a bear, stalking about and looking quite fierce.

"The children ran about, laughing and enjoying themselves, pretending to be afraid, but then a very strange thing happened," she said, growing wide-eyed. She leapt into the air as if to show surprise. "The strange boy turned into a real bear, a great bear, a massive bear with sharp claws and sharper teeth." The princess turned, as if she were frightening a group of children.

"And he chased the children and they ran, not feigning fear this time, but feeling it in earnest. It was then that a kindly beech tree beckoned to them, urging them to hide themselves in her branches and the children climbed into her branches but the bear followed them, its horrible great claws scouring the bark of the brave tree, and then it began to climb the tree, following the children, wishing to devour them. But the tree grew up, up, up, taller and taller into the sky, bearing the children towards the heavens until the bear could no longer follow. And, having come to the sky, the children saw how marvelous the heavens were and decided to make their home there. Thus they became the stars and still they look down upon us today, and upon the trees, who turn their leaves towards the light of the stars in memory of the bond that they share." With that, Luthien's dance came to an end and she bowed low. Galadriel stood in awe at the beauty of the story and of Luthien's dance. Suddenly, she felt as though she could understand the Sindar better.

"Now," Luthien said, "I will teach you the dance of the Sirion."

Galadriel's next worry was how to obtain a dancing costume, for she had asked the other girls and one of the more senior dancers had told her that she would be expected to provide her own. She had hurriedly counted the coins that she had hoarded away in her chest, wondering if it would be enough for something simple. Maybe she could get a cheaper cut of silk, but she very much doubted whether she would have enough for the ornate headdresses and the silver bells that the dancers wore around their wrists and ankles. And then she wondered if it were even possible for a tailor to make her such a thing in only a day and cursed herself for not having thought this whole business out better.

"Do you realize how terrible our pay is?" She had fumed to Bainwen as she counted her coins again, as if that would somehow magically make them multiply. "What for all the trouble we put up with you would think it would be better!"

"Oh believe me, Naneth, I know," Bainwen had groaned in response.

But, it turned out that she needn't have worried over it at all, for when she returned from the laundries in the morning she had found a cedar box on her bed. "You got a package," one of the girls said to her in passing. "I think there is a letter from one of your brothers as well." She had lifted the lid of the box to find something truly splendid inside, a dancer's costume of deep violet silk, the sash embroidered with silver swans. It was studded with small pearls and elegantly hemmed in designs of silver thread. All of the jewelry was there as well, a headdress of silver and pearls, bangles of silver bells, and, atop it all, a small, folded note that read:

_I rather think that gold suits you better but I'm afraid that all of mine are silver. I hope this one will do. Keep it as long as you need._

_– Luthien,_

Thus it was that the following evening found Galadriel in the highest of spirits and quite prepared for her exam as she dressed in the magnificent costume. The other girls gathered around, gasping and admiring the outfit and Bainwen in particular seemed so overwhelmed with awe that she could hardly contain it.

"Wherever did you get such a thing?" One of them asked her.

"A friend," she told them. "But I am only borrowing it."

She followed Madam Lhaineth to the dance master's study, surprised to find that all the dancers were there as well, watching curiously as the dance master greeted them. She had a pleasant, heart-shaped face and long auburn waves of hair that fell to her waist. She was not nearly as stern looking as Madam Lhaineth.

"I was surprised when you informed me that you had an applicant," she told Madam Lhaineth. "It has been a while since you recommended anyone. However, when you told me that the applicant was Galadriel I thought it only natural. I still recall her dance before the court, oh when was that? It must have been nearly 190 years ago if I remember correctly, just after she arrived in this city for the first time." She smiled.

"Oh, yes, yes. She certainly is a talented dancer," Madam Lhaineth chimed in and Galadriel had to stifle a laugh. She knew full well that Madam Lhaineth had never seen her dance, but currying favor of those who held higher positions than she was something that interested Madam Lhaineth even more than sherry and her papers.

"Well the girls are very eager to see her dance," the dance master said. "I know that they are hoping she can teach them some foreign dances." Galadriel glanced around at the other dancers and smiled. She recognized many of their faces from the dormitory and she was surprised to note that, though there were a few sour glances, most of them did indeed seem excited that she was there. Perhaps the Sindar were not as filled with hate as she had thought.

"I had assumed that you would want to test her in the traditional dances," Madam Lhaineth said.

"Well of course I shall," the dance master said. "But what is life without a little variety?"

"Of course," Madam Lhaineth wheedled, "variety is the spice of life after all," though there was a slight tone in her voice that indicated she found nothing more distasteful.

"If you would please begin with the Dance of the Stars, then on to the Dance of the Sirion, and finish with Orome's dance, Galadriel," the dance master said. "Then perhaps I could get you show us some of your Valinorian dances." With that the musicians struck up the tune.

"Well? Well?" Bainwen was the only one still awake by the time that they returned, for the dance master had wanted to spend a long while in conversation with Galadriel and all of the other dancers had returned before she and Madam Lhaineth did.

"Bainwen, you ought to be in bed," Madam Lhaineth scolded the messy-haired Laiquendi who was jogging in place, having waited to ambush them at the door. Galadriel briefly wondered if she had had that much energy when she was in her 80s.

"Yes Madam Lhaineth! Of course Madam Lhaineth! Right away ma'am!" Bainwen exclaimed. She seemed to have a knack for dealing with the taciturn chief maid that Galadriel could not quite get the hang of. It seemed to mostly involve enthusiastically agreeing to do whatever Madam Lhaineth told her and then never actually doing it.

Madam Lhaineth retired to her quarters and Bainwen grasped her friend's hands. "Well? Did you get it! Don't keep me waiting!" She exclaimed.

"Yes! I did!" Galadriel said, her face brimming with happiness.

"Oh well done! Well done! I am so happy for you!" Bainwen cried, nearly loud enough to wake up the entire dormitory, throwing her arms about her friend and embracing her.

"Wherever did you get that?" Celeborn asked as Galadriel sashayed her way into the abandoned courtyard wearing a spectacular dancing costume of the most delicate pale blue silk trimmed in pale gold embroidery and embellished with tiny white pearls that seemed to shimmer with the sun's light. She was eating some sort of pastry and she stopped eating it to speak.

"It is marvelous is it not?" She said with a grin. Her wrists and ankles jingled with tiny pale gold bells and atop her head was a magnificent headdress of gold and pearls, a similarly fashioned girdle sat low across her hips beneath her bare stomach. The skin there looked soft, smooth, inviting… "A present from Finrod. The bangles are from Aegnor and Angrod. Tell me what you think!" She implored him, spinning about, and she managed to make him laugh.

"It is very nice," he told her and she rolled her eyes, moving to sit beside him. Perhaps it wasn't fair, perhaps it was horribly vain, but she had wanted him to say that she looked beautiful, spectacular, magnificent. She wanted…suddenly she felt very awkward but she almost thought that she had wanted him to look astounded, speechless.

"That's all you have to say – very nice. What a friend you are, Celeborn," she grumbled. There were a good many more things Celeborn wished to say, things that had risen unbidden to his mind, but he deemed it wiser not to give voice to them, lest she accuse him of being horribly debauched and never speak to him again. He swallowed, trying to will away the rather disconcerted and decidedly unfriendly thoughts that crowded his mind. Galadriel seemed to recover from her momentary irritation with him. "Here, try this." She stuffed a bit of the pastry she was eating into his mouth.

"Galadriel, you've already been chewing on it," he protested but the Valinorean maid was in far too good of spirits to let his protests stop her.

"Ah, ah!" She scolded him and he obediently took a bite of whatever it was she was offering him. It was an unpleasant surprise.

"Aule's balls that's terrible!" He exclaimed, just barely managing to choke the pastry down. "Did you make that?"

"No," she replied with a grin. "My friend Bainwen made it and I told her it was delicious. You had better tell her that too if you ever meet her. She's my friend."

"I doubt I shall ever meet her," Celeborn replied.

"I have been wondering, Celeborn," Galadriel said, seating herself beside him and broaching the issue that she truly did not wish to broach, for she was in a perfectly happy mood after all, but felt she must, "if it isn't a little bit overly conspicuous for us to keep meeting this way." For, Venessiel's warning of the evil some wished upon her was still fresh in her mind and she feared the consequences for both of them should they be discovered.

"I have taken care of that. They will give us no trouble even if we are discovered," He said, his green eyes flickering towards hers and she thought he looked uncharacteristically nervous.

"No, that isn't quite what I mean," she stammered. The truth of the matter was that the more she spoke to Celeborn the more often he occupied her thoughts. And, particularly since she had warned him about her vision, she found herself consumed with worry over what would become of him, her mind preoccupied with dissecting the vision, trying to discern whether or not it would come to pass, and she feared more than anything that it might be his association with her that had endangered his life. "What I mean is …I think we should not meet so frequently…if at all."

"Do you mean to imply that it is my fault?" Celeborn asked, looking extremely put out. "You have sought me out just as much as I have sought you out!" There was a nearly manic quality to his behavior as he rubbed his hands together, his breathing quick and shallow.

"No, it isn't that," Galadriel exclaimed, assuaging his fears, wondering why Celeborn seemed suddenly so defensive and upset at the prospect of losing her company. She had not thought that it would matter this much to him. Gently she reached out, touching his hands, stilling his frantic movements. "I don't mean to hurt you," she stammered. Her heart was pounding.

"Then tell me the truth, Galadriel," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers, his gaze firm and she sighed. Now that it had come to it, the guilt and sorrow she felt threatened to overwhelm her. Yes, she was on friendly terms with Luthien and, yes, Bainwen was dear to her as well, but she had no one she knew as well, no one she trusted, no one she valued more than Celeborn. Tears brimmed in her eyes that had only moments before been filled with joy and she bit her lip as those tears began to fall, slowly, silently.

"Oh, Galadriel," Celeborn whispered in a tone of pity, drawing her into his arms and, though she knew that she really should not allow it, she drank in the warmth of him, the strength of him that surrounded her, the smell of him, and somehow his embrace managed to bring her some small measure of comfort. "I am sorry for being cross with you," he said, thinking it was his fault. "There is no shame in tears," he whispered.

She closed her eyes and found herself in a sunlit meadow, marveling at all of the colors of the tall grasses that grew there, flaming amber and rich gold, vibrant greens and soft browns, deep hues of indigo. And all about were tiny yellow and white flowers. The edge of the horizon was burning now in crisp oranges that slowly began to fade to pink and, at the rim of the world the sun began to rise, a great golden ball of glory. She heard a gasp and her eyes snapped open, thinking that they must have been found but she saw no signs of any disturbance, only Celeborn still holding her and, gently, she pulled away. He seemed reluctant to let her go.

"You think that it is your fault – the vision, my death," he said softly, meeting her gaze as he reached up to wipe away her tears. She nodded numbly.

"I cannot help but think that it is because you were caught up with me, that I may have brought the doom of Mandos down upon you as well," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I can never forgive myself for it and I don't expect you to forgive me either. Even the worst of my enemies would not deserve such a fate but never, never would I have wished it upon you." She looked up at him, her eyes still full of tears though they no longer fell.

"I have seen it," she said, "the hard life that your people live here in this land. I have seen with my own eyes and heard from both your lips and theirs how the evil of Morgoth has plagued them, has plagued this land that they love. They need hope, Celeborn, they need a future and I know that they depend upon Thingol and Melian, they depend upon you and upon Luthien for that. You brought peace to them by building Menegroth, with Melian's girdle, by winning the Battle of Beleriand. If anything were to happen to you it would cause such devastation. And besides…I…I would be devastated too."

"I know," Celeborn said, stroking her hair comfortingly. "But for centuries now I have been well aware of the doom that lies upon you, Galadriel, and it does not frighten me."

"Why?" She asked him and he merely shrugged, giving her a small smile.

"I suppose," he said, "it is because I have a far lesser opinion of the Valar than you do. In my experience, they have not done such a good job of keeping their promises so why should I expect them to make good on their threats?" Galadriel merely stared at him, as though she could not decide whether to be more shocked by his blasphemy or by how little he seemed to care.

"And what is more," he told her, "I have found the children of Finarfin to be loyal and kind of heart. Pride you may have in abundance, yes, but I have not even half the compassion that you and Felagund possess. To rob this world of such good hearts would be a crime indeed. So if Namo wants to come for either of you to spirit you away to Mandos, you had better believe he will have to kill me first. And I am a Sinda. We are difficult to kill, like roaches."

But, despite the confidence of his words, he could feel his heart quaking within his chest at the fear that she would discover what he had done. She had been right to think that he had been drawn into her fate, right to discern that from her visions, but it was not for the reason she thought. It was not her fault; she had not brought the doom of Mandos upon him. He had brought it upon himself, from the moment that he had made the cuts, pressed his veins to hers, mingled their blood. He had taken the blood, the life force of one condemned by the Valar themselves into his own body and he had no doubt that the consequences, the doom, now lay upon his own shoulders just as surely as it lay upon hers. He had done it willingly, knowingly, freely.

"Roaches?" Galadriel sniffed and then laughed, though her eyes were still full of tears, for she could hardly believe what he had said. "You are my dearest friend," she whispered, squeezing his hand if only for the excuse to touch him again.

"And you are mine," Celeborn said with a small smile, consoling her. It would not do for her to suffer on his account. "I would hate to lose your company for there are so many days when I feel that it is the only things that keeps me sane, that keeps me focused on my goals. This is an exceedingly hard time for me, what with this business at Himring, with my uncle slowly fading, with my kingdom facing war. It is at times like this that we need our friends most of all."

"So you will not allow me to call our friendship off then I suppose," she said.

"Not unless you beg me to do otherwise," he told her. "You are important to Doriath, Galadriel, to me," he told her. "You may not realize it but it is so. Your perspectives, even though I must relay them second hand to Thingol, are valuable, they allow us to better conduct our affairs with your cousins. And besides, at this point I honestly do not know how I would keep my wits about me if I did not have you to confide my problems and frustrations to."

"What is more, you had best forget this business with the vision," he told her. "As you said yourself, you cannot be sure what will come to pass, or how much truth, if any, there is in it. Let us simply take things as they come." Guilt tugged at him. He had cautioned her against Venessiel but he was being no more truthful than she.

"Then I would be glad to continue to call you my friend," she told him with a smile.

"I am glad to hear it," Celeborn said, desperately wishing to turn this conversation towards other things. "Now tell me, how is your new position coming along?"

"I like it very much," Galadriel said, brightening. "I have only served at a few parties so far but things seem to be going well. I am learning a good deal from the other dancers and they have taken a keen interest in the dances of Aman as well."

"That is good," Celeborn replied, happy for her. "It seems you are moving up in the world." Galadriel laughed at that.

"It rather feels that way," she said, "and it is a very good feeling." At that thought she wondered for a moment if she could do this on her own, if she could forge her own path, if she need not ride Venessiel's coattails to the top.

"Thingol shall be hosting a party of his own in the upcoming weeks," Celeborn told her. "We are having some emissaries, led by a chieftainess called Nellas, coming to visit from our northernmost towns, those that have been most affected by what Maedhros is doing. Nothing too formal," he told her, "no diplomatic discussion or negotiations certainly, but it is my hope that casual conversation over the matter might help to alter Saeros's mind somewhat, or could possibly turn the minds of some of his supporters. It would be rather fortunate if you were able to be there, seeing as Saeros will be in attendance."

"It would," Galadriel said, "but I certainly would not pin your hopes on it. I only entertain at the parties of rich merchants and the like. They will send the very best and most experienced dancers for the king's party. But I certainly hope you shall enjoy it."

"Oh I enjoy nothing at which Saeros is present," Celeborn said with a laugh, shaking his silver head. Galadriel watched the sunlight move across the moonglow of him, the way the shadows dipped into the curve of his neck through his open collar, the way his simple linen shirt sat along the breadth of his shoulders. He wore no tunic today, no robes, only a shirt and breeches. It was Tuesday, she remembered; he must have been sparring with the wardens. She swallowed.

"Well then, I had better be getting back before my curfew," she said, a phrase that was now very familiar to the both of them.

"Of course," he replied, but she was already hurrying from the courtyard before he could get the words out of his mouth. He felt strangely hollow without her by his side.

"Girls! Girls!"

Madam Lhaineth was preening, tucking the stray strand of hair that made her seem somewhat less severe back into her tight braid, smoothing her uniform, straightening her cap.

"Girls!" She cried, managing to simultaneously look pleased and intimidating. She clapped her hands and they all sprang from their beds, where they had been sitting, to stand at attention before their trunks. The excitement in the room was palpable. Each and every one of them was wondering why they had been called back from their duties so suddenly and why the dance master was present. Galadriel was quite certain that she knew the reason.

"Girls," Madam Lhaineth said again, beginning to walk slowly down the row, her hands clasped before her as if this were the evening inspection. "Your presence has been requested this evening at a private gathering arranged by the King himself." The hall erupted in giggles and whispers but a stern glance from Madam Lhaineth was enough to quiet them all again. "You are to assist several of the Princess Luthien's handmaidens and some of the gentlemen's footmen in serving the party this evening. I expect that you will all obey their instructions exactly and show proper decorum."

"Yes Madam Lhaineth," the girls replied in unison but they could hardly stop their excited whispering.

"Very well then. You are to go to the baths immediately and then you must come back directly and put on your very tidiest and very best uniforms. Only five of you are needed. One of the princes will be coming himself to select which five will be accorded this special honor so I suggest that you be on your very best behavior." At that the hall erupted in a flurry of chatter that even Madam Lhaineth seemed unable to stifle.

"Madam Lhaineth!" One of the girls raised her hand and the chief maid turned to her, nodding. "Which prince will it be?"

"Is it Prince Celeborn?" Bainwen called out, unable to restrain her anticipation, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Madam Lhaineth shot her a warning look for not having raised her hand or addressed her properly.

"That I do not know. Off to the baths with all of you now and do not tarry!"

They all practically ran to the bathhouses, scrubbing themselves clean almost frantically before the whole lot of them plunged into the water like some herd of wild animals. Galadriel got a few nasty glances but she countered them quickly, "well get out then if you don't like it," she cried, leaning back against the wall of the baths and closing her eyes. Several of the girls laughed.

"Oh it has been so very long since the King requested our services at a party!" Bainwen said, surfacing from beneath the hot water. Her eyes were wide with excitement. "Maybe I stand a chance!" She said in breathless anticipation. "I am a proper maid now, not a laundress after all and I haven't caused any trouble for Madam Lhaineth recently. Paniel is still stuck down in the laundries. They certainly won't choose her." Bainwen laughed gleefully at the thought.

"I thought the prince was to choose?" Galadriel said.

"Yes, but Madam Lhaineth will filter out the ones she doesn't like first," the girl said and then they all started to climb out of the baths, drying off with fresh towels before stampeding back to their quarters.

"Well then I suppose I do not stand a chance at all," Galadriel grumbled with a good-natured grin. She had never expected to stand a chance anyway.

A couple of hours later they were all neatly lined up, not in the dormitory itself, but in the antechamber, which was a much finer room and less messy besides. Madam Lhaineth did not deem it proper for a man to see a woman's bed. Galadriel swallowed, nervous, clasping her hands tightly to herself, wondering if she was lucky enough for it to be Celeborn. There was a knock on the door and the whispers that rose up were quickly silenced by Madam Lhaineth and the dance master. A footman opened the door and Galadriel felt her heart drop as she realized that it was not Celeborn, but Galathil. Well, it was better than Oropher at least, she supposed. Not that this helped her any. She was far too new and inexperienced of a dancer to ever be chosen and, even if she were, Madam Lhaineth would certainly never allow her to go, the chief maid had not forgotten her spats with Paniel.

"Prince Galathil," Madam Lhaineth and the dance master both sank into a low bow and the girls all followed suit.

"Ladies," Galathil bowed to them, flashing a winning smile, and Galadriel nearly snorted with laughter, remembering what a terrible romantic Celeborn's brother was. "Now, Madam Lhaineth, would you be so kind as to advise me which of your girls have exhibited superior standards of service? I am under strict instructions to bring only the best," the prince said.

"Of course your highness," Madam Lhaineth replied, simpering, and she moved down the row, tapping girls on the shoulder who then stepped forward. Galadriel was not surprised when she was not chosen, but she saw Bainwen step forward and found some comfort in her friend's success. Galathil stepped forward, speaking to several of the girls and then quickly selected two. He paused for a moment, seeming undecided, and then gestured to Bainwen, who did her best to keep her composure, though Galadriel could tell she was practically jumping for delight. She smiled. Galathil looked left then right, then gestured for the girls to step back into the line.

"Only three your highness?" Madam Lhaineth asked, concerned.

"I shall need two dancers as well," the prince said and the dance master moved down the line now, tapping the most experienced dancers on the shoulders. They all stepped forward in a jingle of bells and, once more, Galadriel was not chosen. Galathil quickly selected Silevren, the most experienced and accomplished of the dancers, an energetic lady with black hair, snowy white skin, and lips as red as a winter rose, a true image of Sindarin beauty.

"Silevren is a fine choice, your highness," Madam Lhaineth simpered. But Galathil had stopped now before Galadriel and she raised her eyes, curtsying slightly.

"Her," Galathil said, nodding at Galadriel. His eyes met hers and she thought that she just might see the hint of a smile in them, though Galathil wore a serious expression now.

"H…her?" Madam Lhaineth spluttered. "Oh no, respectfully, your highness. You don't want that girl, certainly not that girl. She is very poorly behaved. She fights, fistfights, even, with the other girls." Galathil only laughed.

"But she is a talented dancer, your highness," the dance master said, "rather new though. Not that I mean to question your judgment. Galadriel is a fine choice if that is what your highness wants."

"Then I trust that Silevren will help her if she needs it," he said, nodding to the other dancer. "I have seen Galadriel dance before and, as I recall, she was quite stunning. I remember my brother certainly thought so. I thought I would never hear the end of it from him." The prince grinned and many of the girls were forced to stifle the laughter that threatened to escape them at the prince's cheeky comment, including Galadriel, though her face burned crimson with embarrassment. Sometimes she wished that Galathil were less blunt and more tactful. "Besides there are many attending this party who are so stuck in their ways. I think it might do to liven things up with something rather…exotic." Galadriel could tell how much Galathil was enjoying this.

"If…if your highness is certain…" Madam Lhaineth said, unable to believe it. Galathil was certain and, a few minutes later, he was leading them all through the corridors to where the party would be held, the girls following him in awe.

"I…I beg your pardon your highness," Galadriel whispered as they walked. "But why have you chosen me? There are many other girls who are more…"

"Because I saw fit," Galathil said, and then, cracking a grin, "and because I wish to watch you vex my brother."

"Yes, your highness," Galadriel said, unable to think of anything better to say, stepping back in line with the other girls but their eyes had gone wide at the prince's words and she could tell that they were practically bursting with excitement. But mostly she was confused, for she had never been able to work out how Galathil felt about her when last she had been in Menegroth and Celeborn had recently told her that his brother had not been at all pleased by her return. Maybe it was just as he said, that he wished to play a little joke on Celeborn. It was certainly within the realm of things that Galathil would do.

He had taken them to a small antechamber where they had been introduced to some of Luthien's handmaidens, some of whom Galadriel already knew, and they then began to plate food, wipe glasses, and uncork wine bottles in preparation for the party. She was not the only unorthodox choice that Galathil had made, Galadriel noted. The girl working beside her, Inwen, was very diligent in her duties but, though a servant, she was not a maid but a nurse at the houses of healing and had very little knowledge of or experience with entertaining. Galadriel turned to her right, where Bainwen was quivering with excitement and grinned. Something about her friend's joy was infectious. But they had only been at this for the span of half an hour before that joy was turned on its head when Galadriel heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Galadriel!" She froze, hearing the collective shriek of surprise from the other girls. Inwen dropped a plate and it shattered on the ground.

"Valar, it's really true!" She heard Bainwen squeak and she turned to find Celeborn behind her. He was looking extremely formal for having claimed that this would be a casual party, his long silver hair hung loose but he wore his crown and an elegantly brocaded robe of evergreen silk with a crisp white collar at his throat and a mantle of dusky, soft, gray velvet.

"I did not think Galathil was serious," he gasped. "I thought certainly he was lying, that it was a joke he intended to play on me, get my hopes up and…" he looked around, noticing that the other girls were staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. Bainwen in particular was trembling at the knees and looked fit to collapse. Even Galadriel herself stood frozen, wondering what on earth could possibly have possessed him to speak to her in front of the other servants. Perhaps he thought that because they were servants it would not matter, but Galadriel knew that they spread gossip like wildfire. She did live with them after all.

"I…" he put a hand on Galadriel's bare waist to guide her from the room, indicating he had realized that the present situation would not do and that he would rather speak to her privately, but the other girls let out another gasp at the gesture of intimacy. Galadriel glanced from him to her friends. "…in private," he mumbled.

"Of course," Galadriel replied, nodding quickly and following him from the room and down a narrow corridor that the servants commonly used. "Do you want all sorts of rumors floating around this palace?" Galadriel hissed, turning to him. "Because that is exactly how rumors start!"

"That was Galathil's trick!" Celeborn fumed, hands on his hips, looking as though steam were about to billow out of his ears. "He told me you were alone, that you wished to speak to me about…he made me think that you were going to tell me…never mind what I though! I shall have his head for it!"

"Does he know that we have been meeting in private?" Galadriel asked, worried of what might happen to the both of them, of the terrible political and personal consequences that seemed to lie in store.

"I did not think so!" Celeborn exclaimed. "But maybe I was mistaken." He was now beginning to think that meeting in private was, perhaps, more of a liability than meeting publicly would have been. It certainly did look suspicious, meeting in that courtyard where no one could observe them, observe that their behavior towards one another was…was…friendly. And yet he knew why it was that he had been meeting her in private: because in public he never would have been able to speak to her so freely, to hold her hand, to embrace her. He could already imagine what Saeros would say. _If you are being perfectly honorable as you have claimed, Celeborn, then why meet with her in private? Or was your little speech all a lie?_

"Have you said…" she began.

"No," he replied, "I have said nothing about it to anyone." And then he seemed to collect himself a little and quit his pacing, turning back to her. "I will take care of it," he told her, "you needn't worry. But what will you say to the other girls?"

"I think nothing is best," Galadriel told him. "They will doubtlessly gossip but any reply I make to their questions would only inflame it. I will say nothing." Celeborn nodded.

"Look," he said, looking very serious and, in all his finery, Galadriel thought he looked like a king when he put on a serious face, and a very handsome one at that, "I have been thinking. About this thing with Saeros, I don't want you to feel as though I am putting undue pressure on you. I never expected that you would be at this party but now you are and, well, I know you must be thinking that this is your chance to peer into his mind. But I want you to know that if you do not want to carry through with it, if you have any doubts, any misgivings, then you do not need to do this. I would never want you to do anything you are uncomfortable with."

"My decision still stands," Galadriel said. "Doriath is my home too and I want to help her if I can. I will look into Saeros's mind. I promise you that it does not bother me. I have done so with many others."

"But Saeros despises you and despises the Noldor," Celeborn told her. "I am worried that you will find something there in his mind, some horrid thought that will hurt you."

"Celeborn," she smiled and reached up, tucking his hair behind his ear, tugging on the tip. He swatted her hand away playfully. "I have told you before. You do not need to worry over me or protect me. I can handle myself, I assure you. I did grow up with three brothers after all and they could give Galathil a run for his money as far as embarrassing pranks are concerned." He grinned and she was happy to see that he had relaxed a little.

"I know," he told her. "But somehow I cannot help it." Galadriel rolled her eyes and smiled.

"Then I shall have to count you as my fourth brother!" She whispered. His heart sank. "Now I must be getting back and quickly or they will be dreaming up all sorts of ideas about us!" And with that she turned, walking down the corridor and taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. She had a tough time of it, seeing as how all of them had had their ears pressed up against it, and they gaped at her as they tumbled backwards into the room.

"You were listening?" Galadriel asked them and was met by silent and somewhat ashamed nods. She had hoped that they were far away enough and had spoken quietly enough that the others could not hear but the elves of Middle Earth had ears as keen as wolves' ears and so she thought they must have heard nearly everything.

"I mean, I know what people said…" Silevren said, "but I never really believed it until today." The other girls nodded.

"It is nothing," Galadriel replied, shaking her head as if it hadn't mattered at all. It had mattered. It had mattered a lot. "It was merely something about the party. Now let us get back to work." But the other girls restrained her.

"Oh do tell us everything, oh please!" Inwen implored her.

"It is nothing?" Bainwen repeated Galadriel's words, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. "Naneth, he is in love with you, madly in love with you!"

"He is most certainly not in love with me," Galadriel said dismissively with a laugh. She was less sure of that than she had made herself sound and yet not sure enough that she was unbothered by it. She shook off their hands and took up a corkscrew, going back to work on the wine bottles. But the other girls seemed to have lost all interest in work and gathered around her again.

"His is absolutely in love with you," Silevren said and the other girls nodded. "I have been a dancer for a very long time and I have seen those unnoticed glances, the way that men look at the women they love."

"He isn't," Galadriel remained adamant even though of late she had begun to have doubts about the matter in her own heart, about her feelings, about his.

"Look, we're not all as old as you Naneth, but we know love when we see it," Bainwen replied. Galadriel put the corkscrew down and turned to face them. It seemed they were not about to give up as easily as she had hoped.

"He isn't," she said firmly. "He told me as much himself." She had thought that would quiet them but it did not.

"But how long ago?" Silevren asked.

"Sixty years or so, just after I got in that horrid fight with Paniel," Galadriel confessed though she knew it would have been better to keep her mouth shut.

"Well that is plenty of time for a heart to change," Silevren replied. The other girls nodded.

"Look," Galadriel told them. "I really do not wish to talk about it anymore so please do not make me, I beg of you."

"But you mustn't ignore this!" Bainwen pleaded.

"Don't tell me what I must and mustn't do," Galadriel said. The corkscrew tumbled from her hands and she slammed them down on the table, closing her eyes to stop the tears that threatened to flow for some godforsaken reason she did not understand. She wanted to pick something up, throw it, break it. The girls went dead silent.

She did not understand the way that Celeborn made her feel anymore, Celeborn: her beautiful, kind, generous, funny, friend. Celeborn had always been so straightforward, so bold, it had always been what she loved best – no not love! Like! Like, dammit! It had always been what she liked best about him. If his feelings were as they said then he would have said something by now. He would never have held them back! But why should she care anyhow. Things were decided between them. They had decided how they felt. It was over and done.

"I'm sorry Naneth," Bainwen whispered and Galadriel nodded in acceptance of her apology. She felt someone draw her into a hug.

"Don't cry, you'll ruin your makeup and look like a badger," Silevren whispered in her ear. Galadriel laughed a bit and nodded, opening her eyes again, blinking the tears away.

"We're sorry," Inwen said, rubbing her arm. Galadriel took a shuddering breath.

"I know," she said, "let's just…let's just get back to work."

Nellas was not a great beauty in the vein of Melian, or Luthien, or Galadriel, but there was something about her that drew the eye and perhaps it was her ineffable charisma and energy, her delight in everything. She was a Sindarin woman in the true meaning of the word, gregarious, bold, not one of these city courtiers all bound up in society and tradition and stagnant customs, but a frontierswoman with the spirit to match. She wore no gown, but dressed instead in breeches, a tunic, and a cape of wolf's skin. She wore armor of leather and mail, a great longbow across her back, and brilliant blue feathers in her ornately braided hair.

That seemed to be the one feminine touch that she allowed herself, for she laughed as loud as any man, drank as hard as any man, and cursed like one of Cirdan's sailors. Celeborn liked her all the more for it, for he liked those who had nothing to hide and, indeed, he could understand how Beleg had come to love her. Young she may be, but the spirit of old Doriath, the spirit of the forest, was abundantly alive in her.

And young though she was, he watched as the other Chieftains she had brought with her, elf men and women of greater age and experience, deferred to her judgment, for Nellas was wise in the ways of the world, in the ways of the forest, and she could speak in the language of trees and the tongues of birds and beasts. The party had greeted Thingol warmly and he had replied in kind, glad that his chieftains from the outer cities had come to visit and hopeful that a peaceful resolution could be reached. Saeros and his kind had been more hesitant in their greetings though polite nonetheless, for they well understood what a significant event it was for these elves to have come all the way to the capital.

"You must be Celeborn," Nellas said, meeting his eyes with her own dark laughing ones and she did not bow, but shook Celeborn's hand as though she had presumed them equals. He smiled and laughed, grateful for the gesture.

"I am," he told her,

"Then I am very glad that you asked Beleg to invite us," she told him. "We are very grateful for your patronage and much look forward to your support."

"I regret that we could not do something sooner," Celeborn told her. He was also regretting that he was not finding himself more capable of pleasant conversation but his mind was still preoccupied with Galadriel. Despite her insistence that he not worry on her behalf he found that he could do nothing but feel exceedingly anxious for what he knew she was about to do.

"Then let us move forward from this day," she said with a beaming smile as they moved within Menegroth's gates, "into a new dawn for our people."

Celeborn cursed himself while Thingol gave their guests a tour of the palace and he cursed himself all throughout the banquet, for he could not tear his mind away from his worry for Galadriel and he was greatly concerned that it was hindering his ability to be as attentive to their guests as he ought to be.

He knew that Nellas had been speaking to him for some time and yet he hardly knew what she was saying and he merely nodded and replied with affirming words. He had gone to all of this trouble to bring them here and now he felt as though he was destroying all of it, and not just his work, but Beleg's as well. He tried to refocus his thoughts, to remind himself that Doriath depended upon him, and that was when he felt Nellas's hand on his leg beneath the table, gradually moving its way up to his upper thigh. He nearly choked on his dinner. And he would have pushed her hand away except that he was rescued by chance when Thingol took that exact moment to bring the banquet to a close and they all rose, adjourning to the festivities that had been prepared.

Galadriel breathed a sigh of relief when at last Thingol and all his guests entered the hall for though she had great confidence in her dancing abilities, it would be her first time to perform the Sindarin dances before the royal family.

"You will do a splendid job; I am sure of it! Just follow my lead if you get lost," Silevren whispered to her and the two of them bowed while the maids bustled about, bringing in platters of food, glasses, and bottles of fine liquor. The whole party was laughing and seemed to be in high spirits except, Galadriel noted, for Celeborn, whose gaze she caught as he entered. He seemed tense, even more tense than usual, tenser than when she had seen him only a few hours earlier, and his lips were drawn into a thin line.

She and Silevren began to dance then and Galadriel allowed the music to carry her away, enjoying herself, for though she might have been nervous about her dancing, she was quite confident in her ability to discern whatever it was in Saeros's heart. She glanced at the counselor now. He was sitting quietly amongst some of the king's other counselors and some of the emissaries from the north, looking quite at ease even though he seemed to not be participating much in any of the conversations.

They began another dance then and she turned her attention to Celeborn, who was speaking to a woman in breeches with curly hair. Venessiel and Mablung were seated with them as well. Celeborn glanced up briefly, watching her, and there was a certain intensity in her friend's eyes. She wondered if he was still concerned about what she planned to do, if that was what was troubling him so.

After a while Thingol bid them relax for a few moments and she slipped away to the small antechamber where they had prepared for the party. It was empty now, for the other girls were busy, and Galadriel leaned back against the wall, exhaling deeply as she crossed her arms over her chest. She was pleased, extremely pleased that her dancing had been met with such enthusiasm, for perhaps that meant that she would be invited to more royal parties in the future and that, she knew, would provide her with opportunities and with increased access to Saeros's mind, and yet she could not help but wonder what it was that had Celeborn so anxious.

He seemed to appear in response to her thoughts as she looked up at the sound of the door clicking closed, startled. "Well that's rather a risk don't you think," She chided him, "coming in here while they're all out there."

"I know how to go unobserved when I need to," he mumbled.

"What is it that's bothering you?" She asked him, knowing that it must be that which he had come to speak to her about.

"I cannot concentrate!" He exclaimed in a whisper. "At first I was worried over this matter of you and Saeros."

"I have told you not to worry yourself over it!" Galadriel whispered back, growing agitated with him.

"I know!" He said. "But it preoccupies my mind, I do not know why. And then during the banquet, Nellas…well…."

"Which one is she?" Galadriel asked.

"The one with the curly hair," he replied. "She…I think she…desires me." Galadriel nearly snorted in her effort to repress her laughter.

"Why would you think that?" She asked.

"She kept touching me during the banquet."

"Well that's nothing abnormal, Celeborn. Some people are just that way," Galadriel told him.

"She kept touching me beneath the table," he said and Galadriel's eyes opened wide. "I know well enough when a woman desires me Galadriel. I am old enough to know." He said.

"Did you know with me?" She asked him, meaning it as a joke…or at least she thought she meant it as a joke, but he did not take it as one.

"You were different," he said. "She doesn't want me to court her…she wants…it was never about that with you." He seemed to have not found any humor at all in what she had said and Galadriel swallowed. She could not rightly say why she was so eager to dismiss this issue with stupid jokes.

"This was my chance," Celeborn said frantically, it was an emotion so foreign to his temperament that Galadriel could hardly believe it was there. "This was my chance to turn the tables on this issue. I am throwing it all away and I seem unable to stop myself!" He exclaimed.

"Celeborn," she said, meeting his gaze and taking his shoulders, trying for his good to put away whatever strange feeling threatened to overwhelm her, "I have told you before and I will tell you again. You put far too much pressure on yourself. Thingol has things under control out there. And this thing with…Nellas, whatever her name is," Galadriel said dismissively, "refuse her if you wish. I am sure it is not nearly so much of an issue as you are making it out to be."

"I suppose," Celeborn said, sounding as though he was not at all confident in that. She heard Thingol's deep laugh boom out. Galadriel's face flushed red. His noncommittal answer, his uncharacteristic indecision had angered her. It felt to her as though Celeborn did not have confidence in her to carry out the task that she had said she would. She wasn't sure why his validation meant so much to her.

"Do you know what you are extraordinarily bad at? Trusting people," she said, frustrated. "Not all of this is on you. Venessiel is out there, Mablung, Thingol. They know what they are doing Celeborn. And I am here and I know what I am doing. This is not all dependent upon you. You can be very self-centered at times. Do you know that?" She brushed past him angrily, feeling his fingers graze along the bare skin of her waist as if he wanted to catch hold of her, to stop her.

"Don't," she said firmly, turning towards him, her heart pounding with anger, with some strange emotion. "Don't embarrass yourself." She took up a glass of wine, drained it, and returned to the party. And, perhaps because she wanted to spite Celeborn for doubting her resolution, as she saw it, she slowly made her way to where Saeros was sitting, seating herself near him.

And she sat there for a while on the cushions near Saeros's feet, observing his behavior carefully. He was not a talker and, indeed, even when directly addressed by the others, responded with few words, using just enough of them to end the conversation.

When he drank from his glass it was but a little, a small swallow, and each time he wiped the rim of the glass clean with his fingers, wiping them, in turn, on a napkin. That was the only time she had seen him initiate any sort of interaction, when he had asked Bainwen to bring him a new napkin. She had brought a white one at first but the stain of wine on the white cloth seemed to have unsettled him. He asked for a burgundy one. There was a certain restraint to him, an austerity, a rigidity. If he were a woman he could have been called prim, priggish even, as a man she thought of him as proper, straitlaced.

He sat straight as a rail, though he was seated on a luxurious divan. He might as well have been sitting in a wooden chair. There was an ascetic quality to him, as though he abstained from luxuries and delights less because he believed it right and more because he relished in the sense of control it gave him.

He paid Galadriel no heed though she was seated so near his feet and, instead, he seemed to concentrate on the fire crackling away in the fireplace, less with a look of contemplation and more with the look of a man who wonders if such a thing can be tamed. Galadriel noticed that Celeborn had returned to the party, moving to sit with a group of counselors that she did not know, but she noticed that he kept glancing her way and she knew that nothing she had said had assuaged his worry, that he was cross with her even. It irritated her somehow but she did her best to concentrate on Saeros.

Celeborn was acting strange tonight, so unlike himself, as if he had stumbled into some quandary from which he was powerless to extract himself and something about it seemed to please Saeros. It was no wonder that he disliked Celeborn, Celeborn who drank hard and laughed harder, who worked in profanity the way that other artists might work in oils or clay, who indulged his vices and, what was more, bragged about his exploits. Celeborn who seemed to have not a subtle bone in his body, who did not temper his voice, who spoke his mind.

Celeborn all the more surprising because for all his brashness he could come upon you unawares and you would never have known, Celeborn who did not bother to wipe the blood from his form after a battle, who was rumored to have killed a bear with his own hands. She remembered the way he had looked that night they dueled in the courtyard as the same thoughts swept over her, a man who could strike fear into the hearts of all, who could fill those same hearts with respect, with love, with admiration. He lacked in everything that Saeros prized and possessed in abundance all that he abhorred, for all of that, a single word from Celeborn would have brought this palace to its knees, a thousand words from Saeros would be ignored. They were born to dislike each other in the way that birds are made for flying.

She understood now, or at least she thought she did. To Celeborn, Saeros was nothing more than an annoyance, no more than a fly to be swatted away. But resentment is something that must be cultured, a deep seated sentiment that must be leavened and left to rest until, like dough for bread, it expands, doubles, triples in size. Resentment requires thought, requires dedication, requires…investment and while Celeborn paid not a single one of his thoughts into that coffer, it seemed that Saeros had thrown in his entire lot.

 _Hate is a word so casually thrown about,_ she thought, _and yet it is so very rare that we encounter actual hate._ So rare indeed that it is striking when we do. Curufin, Celegorm, Caranthir, they were angry, they were in pain, they were terrible and horrific, but they did not hate, not in the true sense of the word. But Saeros…he hated Celeborn. Then she understood, she understood how to bring him to his knees. She had met one other like him, one other so capable of hatred, _Feanor._

"Saeros," she said quietly, "it is an unusual name." She did not look at him but, instead, watched the burning of the fire as she lounged back against the divan. She felt his eyes slide over to look at her, as if he could hardly believe she would dare speak to him, but she knew that he had been watching her for a while now. "Perhaps it is because my Sindarin is so poor that I find myself unable to discern its meaning."

She lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a small sip, wiping the rim with her thumb. The wine beaded there on her finger and she left it, a glistening drop of red. She knew what he would do next, if she had discerned his personality correctly, if he was the sort of man she thought he was then he would not be able to stand it. She had only to wait a moment before he offered her the red napkin, upon which she wiped the bead of wine before handing it back to him. It rather felt as if she had made some unholy contract.

"It means 'bitter rain'," he said and then he was silent for a moment before adding, "a rather cruel name to give to a child don't you think?"

"Then my mother must be accounted complicit in the crimes of your parents as well, for she named me 'Nerwen,' meaning 'man maiden.'" Galadriel murmured, still looking into the fire, but Saeros was watching her. She could feel his eyes on her.

"That seems rather unfair," Saeros replied, intrigued now.

"There are a good many things in life that are unfair, or so I have found," Galadriel said in reply.

"I rather think so," Saeros said.

Galadriel had needed to say nothing more, his mind had done all the work for her, for Saeros did exactly what she had thought he would, he had glanced, ever so slightly, towards Celeborn, and Galadriel well knew that the prince had been watching her, for he had been all evening, ever since she had arrived, most especially since they had quarreled. He might say that he did not love her and that may very well be true but it also stands as truth that moths must not love the flames they allow to consume them either, nor addicts the vice that destroys their health, nor gamblers the chips that rob them of their fortune. Celeborn had been watching her and Saeros had seen. And Saeros…he certainly bore her no love but a man who hates will not only fight to the death over gold or Silmarils, but will himself drink poison if only because it will deprive his enemy from having a single drop.

She looked up briefly to see a smirk worming its way across Saeros's face as he glanced at Celeborn once more, almost as though he wanted to make sure the prince was watching and, in the next instant Galadriel knew why, for the King's counselor reached down and ran a hand through her golden hair, across her bare shoulder.

"No doubt that many men have told you how…stunning you are, Galadriel," Saeros said, his voice oily, his hand grasping her hair tightly, pulling her head back against his knee, "and rightly so. I am but another, and yet art, true art, it seems, is deserving of every compliment paid to its maker and so, tonight, when this party is finished, when I am alone with the memory of you, of your hair, of your skin, of your scent, I will pray my thanks to Illuvatar himself."

It took all of the effort she could muster not to rid herself of his touch or, what she most wanted to do, hit him for having dared touch her, for having dared say such a vile thing, having dared profane the name of Illuvatar. Certainly he must know the presumed intimacy that came from touching another elf's hair, most especially hers, that she had let none save Celeborn and her family touch it, not even Feanor. It was a well-known fact. And yet her having sat at his feet had had the desired effect. He thought that he had won some small victory over the Sindarin prince because Celeborn had been watching her all evening and instead she had seated herself at his feet, she had put herself within range of his touch, not Celeborn's.

She stood then, retracting from Saeros the strange intimacy that she had instigated, her heart still trembling, and turned instead to the party gathered there. "Shall we have more music and dancing?" She cried with a smile and they greeted her question with raucous and drunken cheers. "Something spirited!" She cried to Galathil and, with a grin he complied, the fiddles breaking into song, and she danced, a wild dance, a maddening dance, like the fire she climbed, and fell, and flamed forth and Saeros watched her as he had watched the fire, not contemplating her now, but wondering instead if she could be tamed, if he could tame her. The look in his eyes sent goosebumps racing across her skin. He had frightened her. He knew it. He reveled in it. It was a look she had not seen in hundreds of years: will you not give me even a single strand Galadriel? Feanor's words resounded in her memory.

Celeborn was so exhausted that he no longer even had the energy to worry over how he had completely bungled this visit and it was with anticipation that he returned to his chambers, looking forward to losing himself in sleep. What was more, he was terribly frightened for Galadriel, for he knew not what Saeros had whispered in her ear but it had frightened her, of that he was sure, and it must have been something truly terrible to frighten the girl who had crossed the Helcaraxe, who had endured the kinslaying, who had weathered the rage of the sons of Feanor. But, just as his hand touched the door to his chambers, someone spoke.

"Beleg had told me so much about you but you are not quite the man I thought you were." The cool, calm voice nearly startled Celeborn out of his skin. He turned to his right to find her there, leaning up against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, a wry grin on her face.

"My apologies," he said, managing to crack a grin himself, though it was less than heartfelt, "I am afraid that I have been feeling rather indisposed of late."

"Indisposed?" Nellas's eyebrows rose questioningly. "You seem like a man who bears far too many worries. Perhaps I can help you put them to rest for a short while," She said with a small laugh and tempting eyes, her hand gently pressing against his chest and it awakened some long dormant sensation in him, for it had been a great while indeed since a woman had touched him in such a way. And Nellas was not timid or shy, but bold, enticing. It was a trait that Celeborn ordinarily admired in a woman, or in anyone really, but instead he could only think of what a horrible betrayal this would be to Beleg, who was his dear friend.

What was more, his heart was deeply troubled by feelings he could not quite understand and, though he knew there was no logical reason as to why he should not desire Nellas, he simply did not. It would not be right to give her hope where there was none.

"I am sorry," he said. "I cannot. I cannot promise you anything."

"Promises?" She laughed, her hand moving to stroke his hair. "Who said anything about promises? I want for far simpler things than that, only to share a bed with a beautiful man. You are a beautiful man and I am a beautiful woman. Why should we not enjoy such things when Illuvatar gave them to us for that very purpose? Is it something else that bothers you?"

"I…" he began, but it seemed that he had forgotten whatever it was he had opened his mouth to say.

"I am not asking for love," she said, laughing. "Love whomever you like. We may both be Sindar indeed but I haven't any care for the customs and complicated rules that you all keep in the capital. Let go of your worries for a while; liberate yourself."

"I…" he started again to refuse her but suddenly his vision seemed to go white and then he was walking through the most beautiful gardens he had ever seen, feeling the soft freshness of verdant grasses beneath his bare feet. He looked up, up high into the heavens and wonder was awakened in his heart for he stood now beneath a canopy of leaves that blossomed from the tallest trees he had ever seen, and the most beautiful. Their bark looked as though it had been rubbed with silver and the leaves that lay scattered about the ground were of a rich emerald hue on top, the bottoms of them as golden as Galadriel's hair.

He returned to the present, his hands shaking, and Nellas was staring at him, her eyes wide, horrified. "I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, bowing low. "I did not know that you were bound to another! My most sincere apologies." And she fled, mortified by what she had done.

*****

**Footnotes:** Hey guys, the sex thing is going to start being an important thing to remember in the next few chapters so I just want to make sure we are all on the same page. I am basing the sexuality off of Tolkien's LACE essay. Basically for elves, sex = marriage. So unmarried elves are not having penetrative sex. When I say someone is not bonded or is not married I mean they have not had sex. Tolkien doesn't comment on how far unmarried elves can or do go so I had to make some decisions here which I tried to do based of the Silmarillion, LACE, and Catholic teaching, since Tolkien was super Catholic and I was raised super Catholic. I think the Silmarillion and LACE shows that elves definitely do have sexual urges and that this is ok, so long as they don't do anything out of line (aka rape, like Eol) and they definitely do not cheat on their spouses.

According to LACE, this doesn't mean that an elf can't fall or be in love with multiple people (Finduilas/Tuor/Gwindor) or that multiple elves can't fall for one person (Galadriel had a bunch of suitors in Aman but wasn't interested in any of them). The Catholic Church does, and has for a long time, rejected the philosophy of dualism as heresy. Dualism is the belief that the body and mind/heart are separate and operate independently of each other. What the church teaches instead is that the body and mind are inseparable and follow each other. So if you have romantic feelings for someone then it is perfectly natural and good for you to have sexual feelings/urges as well (a big reason that Catholicism has an issue with LGBTQ). Likewise, if you have only sexual urges but no feelings for the person then that is bad (aka Chapter 14 Celeborn is hurt so he is being a completely immoral, asshole, fuck up). So basically my position is this: no sex between unmarried elves, no physical cheating on spouses. But, elves do have sexual feelings and, when in a romantic relationship, they do express their love to their partner through sexuality, but not actual sex until they are married. They also do sometimes make mistakes and develop feelings towards elves they are not married to or towards people who are already in relationships (aka Finduilas in the Silmarillion, or in this story Saeros's wife having developed feelings in the past for Mablung) but they DO NOT physically act on these feeling except to confess them.

None of this has any bearing on my personal sexuality or my personal views on sex or religion so don't think I am either in favor or against this, it is just the way I think I should do the story regarding what Tolkien wrote. I understand that people might have some really different perspectives on this and that is completely fine and welcome. Unlike Madam Lhaineth, I do think variety is the spice of life. If you ever have any questions about this stuff please, please feel free to PM me at any time or drop it in a review! I'm always happy to talk and explain. It is one of the things I enjoy most about writing.


	23. Bells at Dawn

  
**Bells at Dawn**

In Cavern's Shade: 23rd Chapter

*****

"Find a place inside where there's joy,  
and the joy will burn out the pain."

– Joseph Campbell

*****  


"Celeborn!" He heard the familiar hiss and looked about for a moment, startled, before he recalled that secrecy was of the essence and managed to school his features into a more contemplative and less startled state. He leaned back against the stone beech, crossing his arms over his chest. It had only been a few days since the party and Celeborn still found himself rather annoyed with Galadriel, though he could not pinpoint any particular thing she had done that made her deserving of his wrath.

"In the middle of the evening. I really do not know what you are thinking," he murmured out the corner of his mouth, agitated with her for having pulled such a stunt, in such a busy place. There were a great many elves about and he must look intolerably awkward and obvious pretending to lean so nonchalantly against this tree as though he had nothing better to do.

"I must speak to you, this evening. I swear it is urgent," she whispered.

"Here to tell me I am going to die again?" He quipped and she was silent for a while before she replied. He knew what he had said was unfair and he did not understand why he was taking his anger and frustration out on her. He hadn't meant what he had said at all but it had been an easy route of attack.

"You cannot seriously blame me for that…"

"No, of course not," he replied, reminding himself that it was not her fault and, in fact, she had done nothing wrong at all. Now he felt terrible about it. "I am sorry," he whispered. "Things have been tense of late since that wretched party. I am not in the best mood."

"I understand," she said and it actually sounded as though she did. He hoped she did at least; maybe she had some answers as to what was the matter with him, he certainly had none.

"This is important, Celeborn. I know you are busy but I must speak to you."

"Very well," he conceded. "But we cannot talk here or now. When do you finish with your work?"

"I still have half a day left," she replied.

"Half a day?" He sounded displeased. "How on earth can someone dance for such an intolerably long time?"

"Celeborn," Galadriel chided him. "Do not make fun. My work is just as real as yours. They are training me. I have lessons and the like."

"Very well," he sighed. "Then meet me in the courtyard, the one where we usually meet, at sunrise," he told her before stepping away, and not a moment too soon for his troop of wardens were making their way through that particular hall then and they stopped to speak with him.

His mood did not improve as the day approached and, by the time that he headed towards the abandoned courtyard, the sun was already quite high in the sky. He was hurrying now, for the place was quite far from the center of Menegroth, in an older and less used part of the palace which was, after all, why they had agreed to meet there, but he cursed the distance now, hoping that he had not kept her waiting very long.

He found himself slowing his footsteps as he approached, secretly wondering if he could catch her unawares, hoping for it almost, if hope was what this feeling could be called. She was there, sitting on the edge of the fountain, wearing that magnificent creation of pale blue silk and gold threaded pearls that Finrod had sent her, her glimmering hair bound up in combs of gold, and pearls, and palest jade. She was trailing her fingers in the fountain, letting the orange and red fish nibble on the tips of them, a small, gentle smile upon her face. He nearly sighed at the sight of her, except that he did not quite want her to know he was there yet. Something about her, about seeing her like this calmed him, nearly made him forget the tension of court life, the continual worries that plagued him, the way he had bungled things so horribly.

Then he shook his head slightly, wondering what had come over him, why he was standing here watching her in such a way. "Galadriel," he said, stepping forward, his tone businesslike.

"Oh, I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten," she said, turning towards him with a smile. He marveled at the goodness of her heart, that smiles came so easily to her in a place where she was despised by many while, though he was well loved in this city, he seemed not to be able to muster even a single grin. It unsettled him and he looked down at his feet, scuffing his boot against the ground as if he couldn't think of anything else to do. He wondered how she could find it in her heart to greet him so cordially after how horrid he had been to her lately.

"My apologies…for keeping you waiting," he murmured before he managed to collect himself once more.

"It was no bother," she replied. "I find I have so little time to myself these days. I rather enjoyed the silence."

"Yes, I have heard that you have become quite popular," he said with a grin, wanting to make up for what he had said earlier, and she nodded proudly, self assuredly. It only made him smile all the more.

"I am always going to parties these days," she informed him, "now that everyone knows I danced for Thingol."

"How perfectly splendid for you," he quipped. And yet as he said it he recalled that look on Saeros's face, the same look he had seen on Celebrimbor's, a thirst for power, a thirst for control. He had looked at Galadriel as though she were a flagon of wine that he would like to drain dry, until there was nothing left. He could feel his shoulders grow tense at the thought. How someone could relish at the thought of chaining a person meant to be free was beyond him.

"Celeborn?" He heard her asking, a slightly confused look upon her face.

"Yes?" His head jerked up as he returned from his thoughts.

"I was only asking if things are so intolerably bad but you did not answer," she said. "You seem to be in a particularly foul mood today."

"My apologies," he said, moving to sit beside her on the fountain. "You are too generous in saying that it is only today for my bad mood has persisted for weeks, months, years. In fact, Galadriel, I must apologize to you for many things. I feel I have been most unfair to you lately. I certainly did not mean to take my frustration out on you but it seems I did. I find my behavior even more particularly abhorrent because of the efforts to which you have gone to support me in this difficult time."

"I must admit that I was not expecting an apology, though I appreciate it," Galadriel said in response. "Still, you needn't be so formal about it."

"And, yes," Celeborn replied to her earlier questions, "things have been quite bad. Everyone is displeased with me. Nellas would not even look at me when her people left, Saeros won't relent, none of his supporters can be turned, and Thingol says I'm too stubborn, thinks I am going about this all wrong." Galadriel laughed.

"He may have a point you know," she said. "But I think your stubbornness stems from your sense of urgency. The true problem, Celeborn, is that you are impatient." From anyone else it might have seemed an insult but when Galadriel said it, it only served to remind him how very well she knew him. He managed to crack a grin.

"You think so?" He asked her somewhat sarcastically.

"Oh, I know so," she smiled at him, her blue eyes dancing. His heart suddenly felt a good deal lighter. She paused and then said, "do not let Saeros's influence affect you. Do not allow him to turn you into himself."

"I'll do my best," Celeborn chuckled. "What was it you wanted to speak about?" He asked her.

"Here I am wanting to make pleasant conversation with a friend and here you are wanting to get straight to business," she told him. "That is exactly the impatience I was speaking of."

"That is the pot calling the kettle black!" He protested, laughing.

"Very well," she said, "I have been waiting all day to tell you after all."

"That is exactly what I mean," Celeborn interrupted her. "You are just as impatient as I am and don't you deny it!" They were both laughing now and she swatted his arm playfully.

"Listen!" She exclaimed. "I was able to look into Saeros's heart after all and I discovered a very great deal!"

"What did you find?" He asked her, but worry settled at the back of his mind.

"Well, nothing pleasant, I can assure you of that," she told him.

"I wouldn't expect anyone to find anything about Saeros to be pleasant," Celeborn replied.

"He likes everything to conform to his order and he is very precise about the way he likes things," she said. "Control is the thing that he values most, that and his reputation. I saw no love for this kingdom or her king in his heart, only love for himself. He is horribly prideful. He is very bitter," she said, "and there are many things about which he has deep-seated insecurities, resentments. He believes he has been treated very unfairly by many and that he deserves retribution for these unfairnesses. But," she said, "what was most remarkable was how deeply his hatred for you ran."

"Really?" Celeborn said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I had merely thought he disliked me and that that was mostly do to politics. I had always thought that had we been born as ordinary folk we would never have had any problems with each other."

"I assure you that it is not so," Galadriel said. "He hates you, Celeborn, most ardently. His mind was filled with it. Everything you are, your very existence is an affront to everything he is, everything that he believes. He would stop at nothing to thwart you. I beg you to take care," her voice was full of worry now, of urgency. "He wants you gone from this city, from this kingdom. The vision I had, about you…about your death. Perhaps it is somehow linked. That is the worry that has plagued me."

"Was his hatred for me truly so great?" Celeborn asked her, surprised, concern evident on his face. She nodded. "But I thought you said that was in reference to the dwarves," he said.

"I thought so," she said, "but it is not uncommon for several disparate things to appear in the same vision. Or, perhaps, if the dwarves really are in league with Morgoth…perhaps he is involved as well. Perhaps he wishes to do away with you and with Thingol. The…the contract the dwarves were always talking about. Do you think he had anything to do with it?"

"Do you truly think him so traitorous?" Celeborn asked her.

"He is," she said. "I swear it. The things I saw in his mind I have only seen in one other, Feanor's. And I thought…" she fell silent for a moment before continuing. "Celeborn, I…I fear that a second kinslaying will come to pass. I swear to you, I saw the likeness of Feanor in him and it frightened me greatly."

"To think that I now fear assassination in my own palace and by another elf no less," Celeborn said, sounding very despondent.

"Oh, Celeborn, I am sorry," Galadriel told him, "for it seems that I only bring you ill news of late and I hate to add to the burden that you already carry. It is only speculation and worry on my part…perhaps you would do best to ignore it. I do not quite understand how it is all connected after all." And then there were the other visions that she did not understand, the visions of which she did not speak, the ones that had started when she returned to Doriath. She did not understand those either. She sighed. She did truly hate to see him worried and she wanted to reach for him, to embrace him until the tension left him, to smooth away the frown that creased his brow, to make him happy.

"No," he told her, patting her hand, "I would rather know than not." Galadriel nodded. Celeborn turned towards her, those green eyes meeting her own and it pained her to see the worry still there. "But do not think only of me, Galadriel; think of yourself as well and take care, for I saw the way that Saeros looked at you and I must admit that it struck a great fear into me. He would clip your wings if given the chance."

"I know, Celeborn," she said, grasping his hand. "Do not fear for me. I have dealt with many a man like him before."

"But you should not have to deal with men like him," Celeborn said adamantly. "What was it he said to you?"

"It would only upset you," Galadriel said but she sighed, for she knew Celeborn would never accept such an answer and, indeed, his questioning gaze told her that was the case. "He said that many men must have told me before how stunning I am, rightly so, and that he was but another. Then he said something about true art deserving every compliment paid to its maker and how, when he was alone after the party he would thank Illuvatar for the memory of my hair, my skin, my scent." It almost sounded more perverse when she repeated it.

Celeborn was silent for a while, his shoulders trembling in anger, a deep furrow in his brow, his eyes hard. "That is disgusting," he said at last. "It makes me sick. It is unholy. He thinks he can treat you however he wants because you are a servant, because you are a Noldo. How dare he…" Celeborn seemed too angry to speak and Galadriel sighed.

"Celeborn, do not worry yourself over it," Galadriel said. "Men like him…they are nothing. I assure you that I am quite alright. He is nothing compared to Feanor and long did I suffer him." Their conversation lapsed into silence and then Celeborn spoke, turning the topic to other things.

"Did your, erm…friends say anything about our my little mishap?" He asked her.

"They certainly wanted to know everything about it," Galadriel told him, "but I told them nothing. I am sure they must have discussed it on their own but I have heard nothing." Celeborn nodded, swallowing loudly.

"It seems I am nothing but a burden on you, Galadriel," he said. "Here you have gone to all the trouble of looking into Saeros's mind and I could not uphold my end of things. I fear I bungled the whole affair. I am truly sorry for having upset you that night."

"I could never think of you as a burden," she said, squeezing his hand, "and I wish that you would stop saying that! You do not know what a comfort you have been to me here, how much your friendship means to me, what a blessing it is to see a friendly face, even if it is occasionally a grumpy one." They lapsed into silence once more before Galadriel spoke again. She suddenly felt intolerably awkward. "About Nellas…" she started, sounding nervous. And her eyes flickered towards Celeborn's lips, wondering if it was still the case that she had been the last person he had kissed.

"No," Celeborn interrupted her, "nothing happened. She offered but…"

"I don't want you to be unhappy, Celeborn," Galadriel said. "She is a Sinda…I am sure everyone would approve of the match, and she is pretty, she seemed clever, friendly. Perhaps it would…it would do you good to find someone with whom you could be happy, who could help you to assuage these worries that constantly plague you." She did not know why it pained her so much to say something she believed to be true.

I have already found her, Celeborn thought, and here she is urging me to seek out another, but he did not say as much. The thought had dawned on him all of a sudden. Instead he merely touched her hand reassuringly and said, "I know, but I cannot find myself attracted to her and, even if I did, one of my dear friends loves her. I would never betray him."

"Ah, well then, perhaps someone else," Galadriel said, laughing as though it meant nothing to her while her heart quelled within her with sadness.

"Yes, perhaps," he said, trying not to let on how much it hurt him that she could laugh about it as though he meant nothing to her, as though he never had.

*****

F.A. 260

The palace seemed to be resounding, echoing, trembling with the great boom of bells ringing in the deep and, as Galadriel was awoken from her sleep she gradually became aware of a great commotion and the sudden fright that something horrible, a fire or some other catastrophe had broken out caused her to start, sitting straight up in her bed. For a moment she thought almost that she was back in Alqualonde, that she could see the flames licking at the quay, smell the smoke in her nostrils, and then she remembered that she was in Menegroth.

She looked around, confused. Some of the other girls were already up, running about, trying to pull their clothes on as fast as they could. Others, like her, were still waking in a dazed stupor, trying to discern what on earth was happening.

Bainwen's effervescent face appeared before her suddenly and she felt her pulling at her hands, trying to get her out of bed. "Get up and get dressed sleepyhead!" Her friend was crying.

"What time is it?" Galadriel asked, confused as she wiped sleep from her eyes.

"Never mind the time," Bainwen said. "There is a messenger here from Fingolfin!"

"From Fingolfin?" Galadriel asked. That had certainly gotten her interest. "But how is that possible?"

"I heard the war is over! Someone said Morgoth has been defeated!" Bainwen cried.

"What!" Galadriel said in shock, rushing to pull her clothes on like all the rest. She hardly dared believe that such a thing was possible and yet her heart was thudding in her chest like a hammer, even as the floor reverberated with the booming of the bells. They spilled out into the corridor and found it so jammed with people that it was nearly impossible to move and, instead, it seemed that the crowd carried them forward of its own accord. She felt Bainwen reach out to grab her hand so that they would not be separated.

"They were heading for the great hall!" She heard someone cry and, indeed, it seemed that the crowd was moving in that direction. At last they arrived and Galadriel breathed a sigh of relief as the crowd thinned out, spilling into the spacious hall. But elves were still pouring in and Galadriel found herself very thankful for her height, for she could easily see over the heads of the shorter elves. A soldier wearing the livery of Fingon was being led forward towards Thingol's throne by the king's honor guard.

"That is not Fingolfin's messenger," she whispered to Bainwen, "he is Fingon's, Fingolfin's oldest son."

"How do you know?" Her friend replied.

"He is wearing Fingon's livery, not Fingolfin's," she told her.

"Oh," Bainwen replied. The messenger was still breathing hard, as if he had ridden his horse as hard as he could, and his armor was still stained with the black blood of orcs. Yet there was a smile on his face that boded good news and, despite the haste with which he had obviously come and the weariness that clearly threatened to overwhelm him, he seemed unable to stop himself from gazing up in wonder at the miracle that was Menegroth.

Galadriel looked up as well, grinning as she noted that many of the shorter elves had taken to climbing the stone beeches and perching there in their branches so that they could see over the heads of everyone else.

"Your majesty," the messenger took a knee, speaking Sindarin with a heavy Quenya accent, his voice echoing throughout the great hall, "it is my pleasure to come to you from the side of Prince Fingon himself. And, it is my further pleasure to bear unto you the message that, only a few days hence, my lord Fingon's forces were successful in defeating the forces of Morgoth." At those words a great murmuring rose up in the hall and it was some time before Thingol was able to get the people to be silent again, despite his repeated attempts to bring them to order. Fingon's messenger looked up, seeming startled to see how many elves occupied the trees above his head.

"Silence! Silence all of you!" Thingol was crying, much in the way that a schoolteacher attempts to silence a crowd of elflings and, at last, the crowd quieted enough for the messenger to speak again.

"A fortnight ago Morgoth sent out his forces, attempting to break the Siege of Angbad, and we were driven off of Ard-galen by the great worm, Glaurung. But my Lord Fingon's forces prevailed. Glaurung has been utterly defeated and Morgoth badly routed. He has withdrawn into Angbad, his strength greatly weakened, and his forces are too weak to attack for many hundred of years. The Noldor send their regards and my Lord Fingon begs you and your people revel and prosper in this great victory, for it is a victory for all elves and for all of Beleriand."

The elves around Galadriel turned to look at her, some of them with smiles of wonder on their faces. Bainwen clutched her hand tightly and she felt the hands of many others reach out, brushing across her clothing, her hands, her hair as though she were some talisman that would grant them strength and fortune.

"This is true?" Thingol asked, as though he hardly dared to believe it. Melian gripped her throne, white-knuckled, Luthien slowly raised a hand to her mouth, and Celeborn…Galadriel smiled as she looked as him, for in his face she could see that he had hope at last, for the first time in a very long time.

"I swear it on my life," the messenger said. "I saw it with my own eyes." He struggled to rise under the weight of his armor, clearly still not having recovered from his exhausting ride south. In his hand he clutched a scroll bound with Fingon's seal.

"Valar save you all!" Thingol bellowed. "Have you no mercy? Someone help this man!" Galathil rushed forward, a few of the guards, and even Celeborn descended from the dais, helping the Noldo to his feet. The prince took the scroll from him and delivered it to the hand of the king. Quickly, Thingol cracked the seal, his eyes darting over the paper.

"Mablung," he said, turning to his warden, "bring this elf whatever he wants. Take him first to the baths and then…"

"You do not have to return to Fingon right away do you?" The king paused, questioning the messenger and the lad looked up, startled, glancing about as if to be sure that the King was really talking to him. "You do have time for a feast don't you?" Thingol asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow and Galathil disguised a laugh behind a cough.

"Y…y…yes, if Your Majesty wishes," The youth stammered.

"I wish." Thingol said. "Mablung," he returned his attention to the warden, "take…what is your name boy?"

"Er…Throndir, Your majesty," the lad said, ducking his head in a bow.

"Yes, Mablung, take Throndir here to the baths and then bring him out to the lawn and we shall have a feast and he shall have as much food and wine and music as he wishes and so shall everyone else. Someone have the decency to summon the dancers and, for Manwe's sake, someone had best bring me Galadriel this instant so I can make sense of this Noldorin business." He gestured at the scroll he had. The people stood still, as if they hardly dared believe that all of this were true, for it seemed very nearly some fantastic dream.

Thingol looked up and then, wonder of wonders, he laughed long and hard. "Well what are you all waiting for? You have waited so long for this day and now you stand about gaping like a bunch of cows." He looked out at the populace of Menegroth, all crammed into the hall or else crammed into the hallways. There were parents holding their elflings on their shoulders so they could see, there were elves holding other fully grown elves on their shoulders so that they could see, there were elves climbing the stone trees, perched on the branches. "I want fireworks out on the lawn. I want the best kegs of wine brought up from the cellars, all of them, I want food, mountains of food, roast quail and chicken, partridges, hams, trout, salmon. I want cheese and fruits and the freshest vegetables. And let's have music and dancing. I want all of this done within the hour, before Throndir comes back from his bath. Is that understood?"

There was a moment where the hall went completely silent and then there was a massive explosion of energy and all around Galadriel people were crying and shouting for joy, embracing, hugging, kissing, laughing. The din was so loud she could not have heard a thing even if someone had shouted directly in her ear. She was jostled about by the other maids, who were all jumping for joy, literally jumping, and people were pulling her into faceless and nameless embraces. A sea of smiling faces flashed before her. She turned to her right and saw Paniel standing there, her arms outstretched, bawling outright, tears pouring down her face, her empty hands trembling, and Galadriel turned to her and pulled her into a tight embrace, clutching the flaxen-haired girl to her and Paniel threw her arms around Galadriel, embracing her, crying all the while, holding her in a vice-like grip. "Don't think this means I don't still hate you!" She managed to stammer out between sobs. Galadriel only laughed.

"Denethor!" She heard Bainwen bellow and the cry rose up amongst the green elves, chanted over and over in remembrance of their king. "Denethor! Denethor! Denethor!"

Over Paniel's shoulder, Galadriel could see the dais, could see Melian and Thingol locked in a tight embrace, Galathil, Luthien, and Oropher leaping about for joy, Celeborn being hoisted onto the shoulders of his wardens, his face lit with pure happiness.

Paniel released her. "I can't believe it! I can't believe it!" She just barely heard her cry.

"The Noldor!" She heard Luthien shout and Galadriel started in surprise as a roar reverberated around her. "The Noldor! The Noldor!" They were cheering now and she felt herself being lifted above their shoulders as they transported her hand by hand slowly forward to the front of Thingol's hall. And some people were crying "Denethor!" And others were shouting "The Noldor!" And she was laughing now, crying now with joy, for she understood the immensity of this moment. This was that chance, that longed for chance for Doriath to return to the height of her glory, to enter a golden age once more.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and bellowed, "DORIATH!" That was when they went absolutely mad, shouting so loudly with joy that it hurt her ears. The cheer resounded around the hall, repeated a thousand upon a thousand times. She could feel the tears slipping down her own face, feel a massive weight that she had not known was there lifting from her shoulders. They deposited her at the front of the room and everyone who was anyone was there, laughing, embracing.

She heard the musicians warming up already, loud raucous tunes, a happy cacophony of notes. She heard the popping of champagne bottles and saw the bubbly golden liquid shooting high in the air like fountains. She was soaked with it, blinking it away. Someone held the bottle to her lips and she drank from it. She was laughing, and laughing, and crying with joy. Now there were cakes being passed around and whole wheels of cheese, and a roast chicken here or there, all devoured instantaneously and no one even bothered to sit.

There was Celeborn, laughing, still wearing his leather armor and his axe. He must have been sent to intercept the messenger. His eyes caught hers and she laughed as someone forced a whole handful of cake into her mouth and she swallowed, pushing the frosting that was smeared on her face into her mouth with her fingers as he approached. She thought he meant to say something congratulatory. She was shocked when, instead, he pulled her into his arms, picked her up, arms tight around her waist, and spun her around and around and around until she thought he had gone mad. They were both laughing and there was cake all over her hands and everyone could see and neither of them cared and then he kissed her and she kissed him, long and hard and she had cake in her mouth and on her hands, which she tangled in his hair, but he seemed not to care and then he set her down and moved off through the crowd once more, cheering and embracing people as if it had never happened, as if he hadn't left her so utterly breathless. Heart still pounding furiously, she looked around, but it seemed that no one had been paying attention, that no one had seen. Something so monumental had been eclipsed by the even more monumental.

"Galadriel! Galadriel!" Thingol was calling, beckoning her towards him and, in somewhat of a daze, she pushed her way through the crowd until she reached him. Melian pulled her into a tight hug, holding her all the while Thingol spoke to her and she was forced to look over his wife's shoulder at him. "Tell me, who are these people? Which houses are they from?" He gestured to some of the more unfamiliar names written on the scroll. She told him. "We must do right by Throndir," Thingol said to her, or rather shouted. The din in the hall was so loud she could hardly hear him. "Would you mind dancing some of your Noldorin dances? And then perhaps you could sit with us all, for I think he might feel more at ease if there were another Noldo to talk to."

"Of course, Your Majesty!" Galadriel called back, wheezing, wondering if Melian meant to choke the life out of her. The queen seemed to realize she had been a bit too forceful and stepped back, tucking Galadriel's hair behind her ear.

"And I want to make a gift to Fingon," Thingol said. "You must advise me as to what would be appropriate. He is your cousin after all."

"Certainly, Your Majesty," Galadriel replied. "But I think I had better go put on my dancing costume," she looked down at her champagne soaked and cake spattered dress.

"Of course," Thingol replied. "We shall be out on the lawn. You know the place, by the great tree."

Galadriel nodded and then she was off, sprinting through the passageways to the servants' quarters. There were many ambitious elves wandering about there, having taken the opportunity to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible and Galadriel laughed at their antics. But her heart had gone mad, thundering in her chest, and she hardly knew what to think. She closed her eyes, willing herself to be calm. There would be time enough to talk about that later. Perhaps it had all been nothing anyway. Everyone had been embracing everyone.

Hurriedly she dressed in the costume that Finrod had sent her, lovingly running her hands across the delicate silk, the pearls. He would have chosen every one of them himself, she knew it, and her heart was full of joy at the thought. It seemed that the tide had certainly turned now and perhaps she could see her brother again soon, perhaps Thingol would give her leave to invite him to Menegroth. She fastened the bells about her ankles and wrists, threaded the golden and jade ornaments through her hair, darkened her eyes with kohl and rouged her cheeks and then she was off, running back through the corridors, out to the lawn where they were all gathering now.

Throndir, it seemed, had returned from his bath and was seated at Thingol's side, nervous, wearing new clothes and looking altogether out of his element. The rest of the royal family was there and Thingol's counselors as well and Luthien began to clap at her friend's approach, a beaming smile spreading across her face. But Galadriel's eyes drifted to Celeborn's and he glanced away. There had been something there in them, something strange, something foreign.

"Throndir, may I introduce to you Galadriel Finarfiniel," Thingol said, standing. "She has been dwelling in Menegroth for some time now, a cousin of your lord."

"My Lady," Throndir said, looking amazed to be in her company, standing and bowing deeply to her, "it is an honor." And Galadriel sat and they spoke then of many things, of the victory in the North and of news of her cousins, the children of Fingolfin, of the latest gossip from Gondolin, of her brothers and of Finrod in Nargothrond.

And then, after they had spent a long while in speaking of these things, Thingol spoke to Galadriel saying; "Tell me then, daughter of Finarfin, what present I ought to make to Fingon in honor of the deeds he has done, for you are his cousin and can doubtlessly judge better than any of us what would be most suitable."

"Knowing Fingon's interests and character and considering that it is his military victory for which you wish to congratulate him," Galadriel replied, "I would deem the gift of a bow to be that which he will prize best. For even in his youth my cousin did have a great passion for archery and he accounts a good bow as an instrument of the highest value."

"Very well, then I will have our best craftspeople make him the finest bow that Doriath can produce," Thingol said, "and I will send it to him at Dor-lomin with my most heartfelt wish that the peace he has established may long endure." And though Thingol's words pleased Galadriel, she could not help but feel a sudden sense of foreboding in her heart and she glanced in the direction of Saeros to see that his eyes had gone dark, as though filled with fury, and she knew that he bore great anger towards Thingol for his decision to send a gift to one who, though not a son of Feanor, had nevertheless participated in the slaying of the Teleri at Alqualonde. She was not startled by this knowledge, for she had already looked into his heart and seen there the hate and well did she know that hatred does not lend itself to forgiveness or to joy.

"Will you dance now, Galadriel?" Melian asked her. "My heart does long to remember now those dances of Aman and perhaps it will bring Throndir great joy to see the dances of his people celebrated here."

"I will indeed, if that is what Your Majesty wishes," Galadriel made reply and then she stood and Throndir took up Galathil's harp himself and Galadriel began to dance to the music of Aman that he played, dancing slowly now in the pale moonlight, a dance as soft and gentle as the breeze, remembering in her mind the beauty of the gardens of Lorien, the gold of the mallorn leaves in the fall and their silver in the spring.

And the people gathered there exclaimed in hushed whispers that her dancing was marvelous and she was pleased to see the joy on their faces and to know that she, in some small part, was contributing to that joy. Her heart seemed filled with happiness this night, filled with the prospect of hope and of goodness and of great things to come. She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling as she spun, the bells on her ankles jingling, and she saw then a vision. A young lad with hair as bright as the moon sat in a still canoe at the mouth of the Sirion where it met the ocean, the paddle across his knees, staring out across the dark ocean beneath a starlit sky and then, across the water, on the other end of that great sea was herself, when she had been but a girl, standing in her white sailboat at the harbor of Alqualonde beneath Laurelin's dying light, the sails furled, the breeze still and she looked out across that great sea, wondering what might be on the other side.

She came to then, nearly stumbling from the force with which she had been struck by the vision, for she had never before seen herself in one of these, and she slowed, coming to a stop, bowing low before Thingol but her eyes were fixed on Celeborn's and she knew now, though perhaps she always had, that he was the one in her visions and she knew beyond any shadow of a doubt as she looked into his awe-stricken eyes, that he had seen it too, just now. But how was that possible? How could Celeborn have seen a vision? How could they have seen the same one, together? And how had she been able to know that he had? It was almost as though she had peered into his mind for a moment. Her heart was racing, her mind confused. She stood, the clapping and cheers of those around her seemed distant, far away.

"Wonderful wasn't it?" Thingol said with a great booming laugh, elbowing his nephew.

But Celeborn could hardly make reply, for he still seemed to be rattled deeply by what he had seen and, when he did reply he spoke more to her than to Thingol, saying, as a man struck dumb; "There was so much light…" All other sound faded away and the only thing she could hear then was the deep-beating, the slow-beating of the glow of her heart in the prism of her chest.

Then a cry rose up, tearing her out of the moment, and the next thing she felt was the splash of cool liquid against her body and she looked up to see that Saeros had stood and, in his hand was an empty goblet, though the remnants of red wine were still dripping from its rim to the grass below. Galadriel looked down at the delicate blue silk, stained now beyond repair, dyed red with wine, dyed red like the blood that had stained the sea at Alqualonde. Celeborn had told her that he loved her and Saeros had seen.

She stumbled, the memories of the kinslaying crowding her mind, _the bent and broken bodies on the docks where the blood caused her to slip, crashing to the ground. She pulled herself up, pulled herself up over bodies, bodies that had gone still but not yet cold. Feanor stared down at her, red blood still running down his sword like rain, silver scalps hanging, swaying from his belt, matted, bloodied. He said nothing, he hadn't needed to; the hatred was written on his face._ Galadriel forced her eyes closed, forced herself to breathe deeply, to disperse the vision. She must, for all of their sakes, she must. This day was about love, and family, and friends, not hatred, not pride, not vengeance.

Melian had rushed to Throndir's side, making her apologies to the Noldo, while Thingol had moved to chastise Saeros but Galadriel held out her hand and called out, "wait!" For no longer would she stand here and allow the insults of others to injure her, no longer would she retaliate with pride. On this happiest of days she was determined that Saeros would not ruin the joy of others. "It is no matter. I will continue. I beg you not punish him." Having so said she wrung as much of the wine out of her costume as she was able, bid Throndir play one of Yavanna's songs, and as Melian and Thingol gradually returned to their seats, heeding her words, looking at her with amazement, she began to dance. Seeing that he would not have the victory, Saeros gave her one last look full of hatred and cast the goblet down, striding from the lawn and disappearing within the gates of Menegroth.

Thingol took her aside afterward, making his apologies, but she only assured him that she did not mind before returning to the servants' chambers to change. It had hurt her far more than she had let on, she thought, as she stared now at the ruined costume lying on her bed, the perfect and delicate thing that Finrod had given to her. The stain would never come out and she thought of how sad Finrod would be if she were to tell him, how hurt. She had only just a few hours before been thinking of how he would visit her here, how she would dance for him, how happy he would be to see her. The mere thought of it brought tears to her eyes and she wiped them away, running her hands across the delicate silk one last time before, with a shuddering sigh, she folded it up and lay it atop her chest.

She changed into a beech green gown of simple cotton and, because they did not quite seem appropriate for such a simple gown, she removed her hair ornaments, leaving them lying on her bed. Very plain I must look now, she thought. Folding her arms across her chest she made to return to the party, determined that she would not allow Saeros to ruin her happiness, and yet she felt sadness lancing keenly through her as she thought about what sort of lie she ought to tell to Finrod to cover up for the destruction of his gift, what would hurt him the least. And, lost in her thoughts, her eyes on the ground, she was surprised when she passed through the gates of the city and was suddenly accosted by an unseen someone who pulled her off to the side, into the forest.

She drew back her fist, thinking that it was Saeros, but now in the moonlight of the glade in which they stood she could see who it was. "Peace," Celeborn said, placing his hands on her shoulders, "it is only I." She took a deep breath and released it.

"Do not dedicate a single moment of your thoughts to him," Celeborn told her, looking into her eyes, "he does not deserve them." She nodded numbly. "If you…if you haven't the money for a new one I will lend it to you," he told her, "and you can repay me whenever you are able."

"It isn't that," she said, almost smiling at Celeborn's reaction, at how he thought he could fix everything. It was so typical of him, so very sweet, and so entirely unhelpful. "I mean, no, I don't have the money but it is the fact that Finrod gave that to me. He…you know how he is. I am sure that he selected each pearl himself, that he worried over it, that he wanted to see me in it…"

"I see," he said, falling silent.

"Well let us not allow Saeros to ruin an otherwise perfectly wonderful evening," Galadriel said, managing a smile.

"In that case," Celeborn told her, "I know the perfect place to watch the fireworks if you would like."

"I think that would make me feel a good deal better," she told him and Celeborn led her through the woods until they reached a grotto that he knew. It was set in a place that was almost like a cave, except for the fact that there was no ceiling and he could see only the night sky above. They slid down the bank, laughing, and he offered her his hand, helping her stand. At their feet was a still, underground lake and all around them a wealth of periwinkle flowers, thick as a carpet. Ivy grew around the lip of the opening in the roof, cascading down into the grotto like a living waterfall.

"I always did think you looked best in green," he murmured, suddenly feeling unusually embarrassed as he glanced over at her. Ever since he had realized, really realized how he felt about her he felt so very awkward about it.

"This simple thing?" Galadriel laughed. "Thank you," she said, looking up at the fireworks exploding overhead in great blossoms of green and gold and pink, then down to where they were reflected in the water. "You were right. This is a perfect spot."

"I bring all the ladies here," Celeborn said, grinning. It was a stupid joke to make, he knew, and yet for some reason he could not quite think of anything else to say to her, though he desperately wanted to say something. It was as if his tongue had tied itself in knots. Galadriel laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. He shuffled awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his breeches.

"This must all be a great burden off of your shoulders," she said, turning to smile at him.

"It is," he replied. "I could never have hoped for something so wonderful, never dreamed of it."

"Isn't there some saying about the best things being unlooked for? I think Melian told me once…" she said.

"Yes I think so," he replied. Their conversation suddenly seemed so stilted, halting. He knew why.

"Well I am glad to see you happy," Galadriel said with a smile, turning to look at him with those fantastic eyes of hers. She desperately wanted him to kiss her again. The moment seemed so perfect. She could not understand why he refrained unless it truly had been nothing. Celeborn thought that his heart was about to leap out of his throat and so he swallowed to keep it down. "Come on," Galadriel said, holding out her hand. In that moment he would have done anything she asked of him.

Just then there was a great boom as a firework exploded overhead, reflected perfectly in the still waters of the lake, a myriad of flaming colors. The light of the sparks was mirrored in her eyes. And he followed her as she waded out into the water, pulling her dress up and tucking the hem into her girdle, until they stood in the center of the shallow lake, the water up to their knees, staring up at the brilliant explosions of pink and gold and green. Standing by her side, the sparks seemed to dance, lighting the water about her aflame and it very nearly seemed as though she glowed. Maybe, he thought, she did.

"Celeborn…" she turned to him then and he found himself entranced by the beauty of the moonlight on her face. He wanted nothing so badly as to kiss her again. "Why did you…why did you kiss me?" She asked him. It was the dreaded question he had hoped she would never ask but knew she would.

 _Because I love you, can you not see it?_ That was what he wanted to say, but he could not. Then he would have to tell her what he had done. He would have to tell her how he had bound her to him without her consent while she lay weak, vulnerable. He would have to tell her how he had performed that forbidden magic, how he had mingled their blood, how she was so very right to fear his death, for he well knew that from the moment he had bound her to him he had also bound himself to her fate, to her curse, to the doom of the Noldor.

Galadriel was strong but he knew how very deeply she cared for him, he knew how she worried over that horrible vision, even if she did not always admit it; he knew that the knowledge that she was powerless to prevent his doom would crush her, and in her moment of triumph no less, when all of her dreams lay before her, golden opportunities waiting to be plucked. It would be better if she could forget about him, about Doriath, journey east, establish her own kingdom as she wanted, forget about this life lived in this cavern's shade.

From the moment he had decided to do what he had done he knew that it meant giving his life, he knew that he would die, but it was all worth it, for her it was worth it. He had thought that he could never love anything or anyone more than this kingdom. He did not know when his love for her had surpassed it. They were the both of them older than the sun and the moon but the love he bore her…it felt as though it was older than that.

"Oh, just for fun," he said. "I was so happy I could hardly believe it. I probably kissed an irresponsible number of people in my joy, maybe even Oropher too, who knows." He laughed so that he would not weep.

"Oh yes," Galadriel laughed, "of course." It was a lie. She knew it, but she could not fathom why he concealed the truth from her. There was a sinking, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach as if, even on this most joyous of nights, there was no happiness left in the world.

It was late when Galadriel finally returned to the servants' quarters, so late in fact that the night had completely passed, the day too, and the sun was beginning to set. It seemed that Madam Lhaineth had forgotten completely about curfew, or else she was too drunk to care, and Galadriel wondered if she really intended to put them back to work in a few hours. If so, then she did not know how she planned to wake them, for a good many of the other servants were laying spread-eagled across their beds, most still fully clothed, some fast asleep from exhaustion, the rest from an excess of alcohol. One of the girls appeared to have smuggled in a male and whoever he was lay asleep on the floor. Plates of half-eaten sweets and nearly empty goblets littered the room, balanced on every possible perch, and Galadriel moved to slip into her own bed, her heart aching, hollow, but she stopped, staring blankly at what lay there. It was her dancing costume, neatly folded, freshly laundered, and looking as though nary a drop of wine had ever touched it.

"Thank you!" She whispered to Bainwen when they awoke much later that evening. It seemed that Madam Lhaineth intended to give them a day of rest after all. Then again, Silevren said that Madam Lhaineth was still asleep on the floor of her office so maybe it was unintentional.

"Whatever for?" Bainwen asked, confused.

"My dancing costume, you managed to get the stains out," Galadriel said.

"Oh, I wish I could take credit but it wasn't me," Bainwen said. "I did not even know anything had happened to it!"

*****

Galadriel stood before the heavy oaken door, her heart flopping about like a fish on land, and tried to calm her nerves, for Thingol's royal guard stood only just there before her and she did not want to appear suspect before them, especially because she had no idea at all why she had been called here and wished not to incriminate herself if something nefarious was afoot, some foul rumor spread by Saeros. It must be something very important for the king himself to have requested to speak to her, though she could not fathom what she might have done wrong that would have merited such a thing. Perhaps it had something to do with the incident with Saeros. Or else, her mind flew to the worst, suppose that something terrible happened to my brothers in the battle and we are only finding out now!

"Galadriel," Galathil had stepped out of the door, "the King will see you now." She bowed to the herald and then stepped forward through the door. What she found was Thingol, sitting behind his desk, looking the picture of calm and geniality, and Venessiel, sitting opposite him, a pleasant though unreadable expression on her face. Startled, Galadriel looked from one to the other noting that they both looked quite at ease, as if they had been speaking as old friends, for the atmosphere in the room was distinctly pleasant, which most likely meant that she was not in trouble. That was some relief. "Your Majesty, Lady Minister," she addressed them, bowing.

"Galadriel, have a seat please," Thingol said with a benign smile, gesturing to a chair to Venessiel's right, and Galadriel obeyed, tucking her skirt beneath her knees as she sat.

"I have been inquiring from time to time as to how you have been progressing under Madam Lhaineth's guidance," the King said. "And I have heard that there have been a few incidents and a few…spirited arguments…"

"I was only doing what I needed in order to be allowed to do my work unimpeded," Galadriel spluttered out in her own defense, but she soon became aware of the fact that she had, in fact, interrupted the King and, having had this realization, murmured her apologies. But Thingol only laughed.

"These young elves," Thingol said to Venessiel with a grin, "are always so very hasty."

"They are indeed," Lady Venessiel said with a smile and Galadriel's eyes flickered to Venessiel's, trying to discern if all of this had something to do with her schemes.

"What I was going to say," Thingol continued, "was that despite these incidents, Madam Lhaineth and the dance master both have assured me that your work is more than satisfactory. Indeed, they said that it was commendable; I think you would agree with me that that is high praise from those ladies."

"I am certainly glad to hear that," Galadriel said, bowing her head respectfully at the praise she had received but in her mind she was imagining what Madam Lhaineth's face must have looked like when she had been informed that the king wished to speak to her.

"Yet they have not only been aware of the quality of your work, but also the hardships that you have faced and the difficulties you have encountered which, I believe, serves only to put your work in an even better light. But they are not the only ones who have noticed both the adversity you have faced and your dedication to your tasks. What I am trying to say, Galadriel, is that Lady Venessiel here hopes to buy out the remaining ten years of your contract and has offered you a place as her handmaiden, if you are willing to accept that position."

"I…" In truth, Galadriel had no idea what to say at all. It was a monumental stroke of fortune. Most servants waited centuries before they were offered a position in a household and only the best could hope for a position as a handmaiden. Fewer still attained a position as high as that of a handmaiden for a royal lady and Venessiel was the wife of a prince of Doriath. When the lady had said that she wanted her help Galadriel had never imagined that this was what she meant. "Are you certain, my Lady, that your husband will not mind it?" It was the only thing she could think to say.

Venessiel laughed, a long and rich sound, and shook her magnificent head. "He would not dare," she said. "I assure you that the matter is already taken care of. The only thing I yet require is your own consent. But, of course, if you think you would be happier in your current position then you are more than welcome to refuse me."

"As long my accepting the position will cause no trouble…"

"No trouble at all," Venessiel said, reaching out to grasp Galadriel's hand. "Indeed, it would be an honor. Think of all the good that you could do for Doriath, Galadriel, for those you care about. Is that a 'yes'?" She smiled at the Noldo and yet Galadriel felt some strange coldness in her heart. She had been nearly certain before that she would accept Venessiel's help whenever she saw fit to offer it but now, now that the time was at hand, the only thing she could think of was Celeborn's warning from all of those years ago.

"Begging your pardon but might I have a few days to think it over?" Galadriel asked, still reeling from the surprise of it all. "Thank you very much my lady," she said to Venessiel. "It is not that I am ungrateful. On the contrary, I feel extraordinarily blessed to have received your favor. It is only that there are a good many things I must consider first and I should like some time to bid farewell to my friends if I am to leave them and enter into your service."

"Of course," Venessiel said with a smile but there was something hidden in the shadows of her mind that struck Galadriel as ill and she felt a sudden sense of foreboding sweep over her. She swallowed, doing her best to control the vision, to not allow the flashes of that shadowy silver figure stained in blood to overcome her. "Very well then," Venessiel said, standing. "I hope that I shall have your answer before long, Galadriel, and it is my sincerest hope that you will answer in the affirmative. I think we could be the best of friends."

"Thank you," Galadriel said. But it was not until she had bid them both a good day and left the room that the realization of what this all meant began to sink in. It was a step, a very large step towards regaining some of the position that she had once had here. Her mind began to run wild as she hurried, faster and faster through the corridors, her heart pounding. A handmaiden! No, the handmaiden of a princess! She did her best to still her heart for, despite her excitement, there was something about the matter that felt so terribly wrong, some foreboding that tugged at her heartstrings and crouched in the corners of her mind. And, despite the fact that Venessiel had purported to offer her everything she wanted, there was a voice that whispered to her. That is not what you want: to rise on the wings of another. What you want is to earn things yourself, to make your own way, to not be indebted to anyone.

"What is it?" Bainwen asked her when she returned to the servants' quarters. "You are looking ever so out of sorts. I can hardly decide whether you seem happy or sad." Wringing her hands nervously, Galadriel paced between her bed and the one upon which her friend sat, cross-legged. Finally she stopped and sat upon the edge of the green elf's bed. "Oh it's something serious isn't it!" Bainwen's eyes went as wide as a deer's.

Galadriel nodded. "Bainwen you must keep this an absolute secret," she whispered, glancing around the room to be sure that they were not overheard. Bainwen nodded.

"I swear it!" She whispered with a sort of holy reverence.

"I have just been called to the King's counsel chamber," Galadriel whispered, "where Lady Venessiel offered me the position of being her handmaiden."

Bainwen's jaw hung slack for a moment and then in the next she was full of bubbling energy. "Naneth!" She exclaimed. "That is extraordinary! Such a position…most girls only dream of such a thing! Not only would you be a handmaiden, but the handmaiden of a princess of Doriath! You could have everything you ever wished for: money, fine clothes, royal favor. Think of what you could do. Perhaps your dreams are coming true at last! It would not be so very difficult for a handmaiden to get a title of her own, to set up her own household here in Menegroth. You could fix things, set things right for your people, yourself, your brothers." The green elf reached out, grasping her friend's hands tightly, but her smile began to fall as she realized that all of these wonderful prospects had failed to move Galadriel.

"You…you don't want it?" She asked, seeming confused. "But why? Naneth…there is something strange about you. Will you not tell me what is the matter?" She implored her friend and Galadriel met her worried gaze.

"Bainwen, I have a very bad feeling about it…something I cannot quite explain," she murmured. "I do not know how to express it, only that I had a profound sense of foreboding and then glimpses of a vision began to come upon me, Menegroth in ruins, Celeborn dead."

Bainwen looked surprised for a moment and then seemed uncharacteristically contemplative. "It seems such a waste to throw that chance away," she said. "After all, so few have such opportunities. But if it does not sit well with you then you must do what you see best." Galadriel was silent, for she knew full well what it was that her cheerful friend was thinking, even if she was too polite to say it; that Bainwen was slightly envious, that she would have done anything for that opportunity to be extended to her, and that she thought Galadriel slightly ungrateful for throwing such a chance away. She seemed to recover and then said, "well, if there is anything you need me to do…"

"If you don't mind," Galadriel began hesitantly, a bit worried that she might have momentarily turned her friend against her, "there is something."

"Your highness…" Celeborn looked up from the ledger he had been examining to see that his footman had appeared in the doorway looking a good deal more nervous than usual.

"What is it?" The prince asked and the footman cleared his throat.

"A message my Lord, delivered by a maid," the footman held out the small white envelope. "A rather strange turn of events I thought." Celeborn wished the footman would give him the message without his commentary.

"Indeed," Celeborn stood and took the envelope. "You may be dismissed if you like," he said to his servant. "It is rather late after all."

"My Lord," the footman bowed and made his exit as Celeborn opened the small envelope to withdraw a hastily scribbled note. He knew it was from Galadriel before he had even laid eyes on the familiar handwriting.

_Celeborn,_

_Meet me. It is important._

That was all it said and, having read it, he cast it into the fire before pulling a tunic on over his shirt and, making sure that he looked presentable rather than suspicious, quietly made his way out into the corridors. The walk to the courtyard seemed to take forever and he was tempted to hurry but was forced to remind himself how exceedingly curious it would make people if he was seen jogging through the halls. It must be something important or else she would not have taken the horribly risky action of sending him a note through one of her friends. His footman must have guessed whom it was from. Celeborn could only hope that he would hold his tongue. He mentally made a note to increase the man's salary in return for his silence.

"Galadriel," he breathed her name upon stumbling into the courtyard. It seemed that it was growing more dilapidated with each passing year and he nearly tripped over a pile of loose stones, pushing the wildly overgrown ivy that hung from the tops of the pillars out of the way as he made his way towards her. She turned towards him at the sound of his name, her lovely face creased with worry, her arms crossed tightly. She was not wearing a uniform, but a simple gown of deep blue.

"Celeborn," she sounded surprised. "I was not sure if you would come."

"What is it?" He asked her. "I was worried about you." Gently he took her shoulders and seated them both on the cracked ledge of the fountain there.

"I hope you did not worry too much," she said. "I merely needed your advice, and urgently. Celeborn, Thingol summoned me today and, when I arrived, I found that Venessiel was there as well. She…she offered a position as her handmaiden."

"Ah," Celeborn said. Galadriel's eyes were searching his. "You are worried about refusing her then."

"I…yes…" Galadriel seemed surprised.

"I know you, Galadriel," he said. "I know you would never accept it." He smiled and it seemed to relieve some of her tension. She let out a long breath and then sighed.

"I had been wondering if I was insane to even consider refusing her. How did you know I wanted to?" She asked.

"Because you do not trust her, despite the fact that you have denied it, despite whatever she has offered you, whatever promises she has made," Celeborn replied. "And also because I can no longer see you as content to be a mere handmaiden." He grinned.

"Must you cite my pride as a reason for everything?" Galadriel complained but Celeborn noted that he had made her smile. "It has nothing to do with that. I…something about her unsettles me. Recently I find that, whenever she is around the visions return, the horrible ones, the ones of you. It is the same feeling I felt when I looked into Saeros's heart."

"Well then you certainly must refuse her," Celeborn said. "Have you done it yet?" Celeborn asked.

"Not yet," Galadriel told him. "I only wonder if it would be foolish to trust in my visions in this instance. Perhaps I shall never receive such another opportunity. Perhaps if I were to accept her offer then doors would open for me and I would be able to improve things for our peoples."

"Now that sounds as if it is someone else talking," Celeborn said. "You do not truly believe that and you would never be able to convince me that you do. When has Galadriel ever been content with riding the coattails of another?" And now he had made her laugh and indeed, it looked as though her worries were nearly assuaged.

"I am worried," Galadriel said, "that she may retaliate if I refuse her. Of course, you know her better than I."

"You are right to be worried," Celeborn said. "For I worry that she has offered you this position not out of the kindness of her heart, but because she believes that you can be manipulated and seeks to use you for some purpose of her own, just as your family used you to conceal their secret."

"Those days are finished," Galadriel said, anger flashing momentarily in her eyes, "and no longer will I allow others to twist my loyalties to their own ends."

"Though she has been my ally in recent years, I very much fear that there is something she is hiding from me," Celeborn said. "Perhaps she wants to use you against me."

Galadriel scoffed. "As if I could ever be turned against you again!" Celeborn grinned. "But I did, in fact, get that same sense from the visions," she confided in him.

"Do not worry," Celeborn said. "I do not think she will be overly upset with you for I plan to keep her busy enough that she will have no time for it. I mean to force a vote on the Himring issue soon. Saeros has lost a good deal of his support in the wake of Fingon's victory. There are many now who do not deem his proposals wise and I think the vote has an overwhelming chance of passing if the matter is taken up now, while everyone's emotions are still at their zenith, while goodwill for the Noldor abounds. Besides, Saeros's little stunt at the feast was viewed quite unfavorably, not necessarily because people objected to his disapproval of you, but because his actions were viewed as childish and disgraceful. To attack a servant in such a manner was most shocking and he has been lampooned for it in several papers. He has very few friends at the moment."

"I am glad to hear it," Galadriel said but Celeborn laughed.

"It does not seem to me," he said, "that this matter was so urgent after all. Indeed, it seemed you had made your mind up already before I arrived."

"I was worried, Celeborn, and you know her better than I," Galadriel chided him. She had also found recently that she wanted to share everything with him. "I was not sure whether she would be angry with me or not. Besides, I though myself mad to refuse her. I only wanted to hear someone say that I wasn't after all."

"Well, I am glad that you see fit to confide in me," Celeborn said with a grin.

"Always," Galadriel laughed, rising.

"Galadriel," he said, standing, taking her hands in his, "do what you believe to be right." They stood for a few moments in silence and Galadriel could feel her heart beating faster than normal. She looked up briefly into his green eyes and found that she…that she wanted to touch him, that she wanted to ask if he had truly meant what he had said that night beneath the stars about seeing all that light, the night the long peace began, if she had been wrong to think that he had meant that he loved her. He was so beautiful in the pale light between night and dawn, all silver hair and green eyes and she wanted to know the touch of his hand, to feel the press of his body against hers as she had of old. "Well I must be getting back…" she stammered.

*****

"Before your curfew, I know," Celeborn replied with a grin and, with hardly a goodbye, Galadriel scampered away.

"I must admit that I am most sincerely disappointed in you, Galadriel," Venessiel said quietly. "I thought that your heart truly lay with Doriath, that you wanted to help our people here."

"I…I do," Galadriel stammered. This was a good deal more difficult than she had thought it would be for now, sitting before Venessiel, seeing how truly sad she looked, she found that she could not help but think that she might have misjudged her, that she was wrong, that she was injuring someone who had only meant to show her kindness. Then there was the deeper fear, the insecurity she felt: that perhaps this was the only chance for greatness she would be offered and she was about to throw it away.

"Think of what I am offering you, Galadriel!" Venessiel exclaimed, her kind and lovely eyes worried. "I beg you reconsider. You need not be a servant any longer. You will be a lady, a lady with the titles you deserve, the fortune you desire, the lands you dream of." It was hard to trust her visions when faced with such words. For the visions seemed so ephemeral, so unreal, but what Venessiel was offering was so very real, so very solid, so very secure and tangible. She knew that it was true, that if she were to take this position she would have riches, and lands, and position. What use was it to trust in a vision that could only show her fleeting possibilities, uncertain outcomes, a jumbled mixture of imaginary bits and pieces.

"What is more, think of the dream that we share!" Venessiel continued. Celebrimbor had once used the same words. "This is our chance to help Doriath, to help our people, Sindar, Noldor, Green Elf, Avari. From a position as a handmaiden, as my handmaiden, you could attain whatever office in this kingdom that your heart desires. You could stand, not beside a man, but as your own woman, strong, independent, powerful. You could become a member of Thingol's council even, as I did so long ago, and you could turn the vote in our favor…in Celeborn's favor." And yet, despite the honey of those words…Galadriel could not shake that vision. For…what if that vision was true? Celeborn's words echoed in her mind: trust yourself. And she heard Finrod's voice as well, imploring her to do the same.

Even if there was the slimmest chance it might be so, it was too great of a chance to take: Celeborn's life might hinge upon it and that…Galadriel would not gamble with that, no matter the odds. In light of that it suddenly became easy to disregard what Venessiel was saying, despite the fact that it was true.

The most deceitful lies are full of truth, Melian's words rang in Galadriel's head and she glanced up again at Venessiel. "I am sorry but I cannot accept," she repeated.

Venessiel looked very sorrowful and said. "Galadriel, do you not trust me? Who is there who knows more keenly than I what it is to be in your position? I rose just as you did and now I am offering you the same chance that was offered to me because I see your promise, I believe in your future, I believe in forgiveness, in making one's self a new. Indeed, that is why I became a minister myself, so that I could extend to others the same opportunity that was extended to me. Do not squander this chance!" In a seeming bid of desperation she unfastened the ruby earrings that she wore, as large as chicken's eggs, flawless gemstones surrounded by flawless diamonds bedded in gold. Galadriel knew they must be worth more than she could make as a dancer in a thousand years.

"I would wager you cannot refuse these," she said, watching Galadriel. "Take them, they are yours, a promise of more to come. Name your price, whatever you like, I will match it." Galadriel stumbled to her feet, for a horrific feeling of nausea seemed to sweep over her then and in the red of those rubies she saw blood smeared on Menegroth's walls.

"Lady Minister, my most sincere apologies," she stammered, her eyes downcast, making a deep bow. "But I cannot accept." And having so said, she fled that place.

Celeborn found his suspicions magnified from the moment that Venessiel entered the council chamber, however, she said nothing and merely took her seat in the silent room alongside the other counselors. Celeborn pretended to peruse his ledgers but his eyes continued to flicker towards the minister of finance, watching her surreptitiously. Her hands were trembling, he noted. His eyes strayed upwards to her temple, to the sweat beading there, and he wondered that Galadriel's refusal, for she must assuredly have refused or Venessiel would not have looked upset, could have elicited such a strong reaction of fear and uncertainty from a woman so accustomed to confidence and self-assuredness.

The chamber remained silent and momentarily he turned his thoughts away from Venessiel, for Thingol had entered, sweeping to the front of the room to take his seat beside Celeborn at the head of the table. The prince marked the king in attendance.

"Saeros?" Thingol asked. Celeborn swallowed.

"It appears that he does not intend to convene with us today," Celeborn replied.

"I see no point in that," Thingol said. "We have a quorum after all." Indeed, it was as he had said. Every counselor was present save Saeros.

It has nothing to do with the vote, Celeborn though. He knows he will lose and he sees it as my victory. He refuses to suffer it. Nevertheless, they waited the span of half an hour for him, after which the King spoke again.

"Very well," Thingol said. "Then I will call the vote. We are voting today on whether or not to treat with Maedhros and Maglor regarding the matter at Himring. This is not to decide the particulars of any treaty or how negotiations shall be conducted, but only whether they will be conducted or not. Those in favor of conducting such negotiations, please raise your hands."

Celeborn looked up to see that not only his hand and those of his supporters were raised, but that all eleven hands were. "Very well," Thingol said. "Mark that as 11 'in favor' and one abstention." And Celeborn did. He felt that he should be happy, that what he had worked so hard for over the century had come to pass at last. He knew that it was not solely the work of Fingon's victory, but that that victory had been closely coupled with the visit from the Northern chieftains, that this victory was not mere luck, but the result of hard work, his work, Thingol's work, Venessiel's work, Mablung's work, Beleg's work, Galadriel's work. He knew that this victory ought to make him feel happy, for all of the other counselors clearly did, standing and shaking hands, congratulating one another, already beginning to discuss the terms of the treaty and yet…somehow it felt so very hollow.

But Celeborn's mind was not the only one in the city that was troubled, for Galadriel's too was plagued by doubts all that night and all the next so that, when she returned to the servants' quarters she did not at first realize that something seemed amiss. Instead, she threw herself down onto her bed, rubbing her hands over her face and staring up sleeplessly at the ceiling above. Today she was nothing but a palace dancer again. She could have been a handmaiden. She had nearly tasted of that fantastic life again, that life of diplomats and princes and kings. Only a few weeks prior she had been advising Thingol as to what present would be best for Fingon, how best to interact with Noldorin emissaries, how to conduct negotiations.

It was quiet, for most of the girls were already asleep and those who were not were speaking in hushed tones. And, in that quiet, Galadriel's thoughts ran to where they had all evening yesterday and all evening today: she wondered if she had made the right choice, if she had been foolish to throw that opportunity away, if Venessiel really had meant well, if she had misjudged her and hurt her. The thought consumed her so much that she had had no time at all to ponder Celeborn's strange behavior. Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them away. It had been so very, very difficult to have everything she wanted tossed into her lap and then have to refuse it. But she reminded herself why she had done it: for Celeborn. It was all worth it for him. She would have thrown away every dream she had, every happiness, if it meant sparing his life. And now she knew why. There was no use lying to herself about it anymore. She loved him. It didn't matter if he loved her not at all. With everything she was, she loved him. And she wanted him to prosper, and be free, and be happy, and to live – to live.

She sighed. Bainwen had been nearly silent yesterday evening when she had returned from her duties but Galadriel found that now she needed some friendly reassurance and so she turned on her side to face Bainwen's bed, hoping that her friend was not still miffed with her. "Bainwen," she hissed, but the hair of the girl in the next bed was black and the face that turned towards her was not Bainwen's at all, but Inwen's.

"Galadriel?" Inwen asked quizzically, seeming a bit puzzled as to why the Noldo would have woken her, and rubbed at her eyes.

"Inwen?" Galadriel was confused. "Where is Bainwen? Has she…has she traded beds with you?" The thought occurred to her that maybe her friend really was envious, maybe she really was upset with her, maybe she truly did see Galadriel as privileged and ungrateful.

"Oh no," the nurse said sleepily, "don't you know? Didn't she say anything to you?" Galadriel shook her head, perplexed.

"Lady Venessiel offered her a position as her handmaiden earlier this evening and she accepted. They must have moved all of her things out while you were away dancing at that party this evening. I'm afraid you're stuck with me now." And Inwen turned back over, resuming her sleep, but Galadriel lay awake, her mind tormented by horrible visions, her heart quaking with fear for her friend.

She could not sleep. It was useless. And, at last, she arose from her bed, tugging off her nightdress and slipping into a gown, creeping out into the corridor so as not to wake Madam Lhaineth. The halls were deserted and, once she was far enough away from the servants' quarters as to be sure that Madam Lhaineth would not, in fact, come storming after her like a dragon, she began to walk quickly and purposefully towards her destination. For Galadriel had had an idea for a while now, an idea small as a seed that was beginning to sprout and now she was beginning to wonder if, just maybe, it was actually possible, if it was not as far-fetched as she had wondered.

The library was unlocked, as she had thought it would be, for the scholars of Doriath were odd birds and often stayed up late into the day, but she would have been ready to pick that lock if need be. They hardly paid her any attention as she slipped in, so consumed were they by their studies. Galadriel began to pace slowly about the massive room. It was fantastic, though she hardly ever came here. The bookshelves did not line the walls and sit in stark rows as they had in Valinor, instead, they were built into the trunks of the stone trees that towered up to the roof, curving around and around, corkscrewing up into the canopy of leaves until she could hardly see them anymore, each one stuffed with books and scrolls.

Galadriel wandered amongst them, stepping across the soft moss and grasses that blanketed the floor, crossing the sunny knolls upon which elves lay, reading, stepping over the brooks that ran here and there, filled with shimmering fish. And as she went she brushed her fingers across the spines of the books, perusing their titles. She nearly groaned in frustration, for the Sindarin way of alphabetizing books made absolutely no sense to her, especially those written in old Doriathrin, but she did not want them to consider her a disruption or ask her to leave and so she remained silent.

Childrens' books: she scowled, setting the brightly colored tomes of fairytales emblazoned with gaudy drawings of unicorns and other such fantastical beasts back on the curving, tree-trunk, shelves. She was looking for court records, for the ledgers that she knew Celeborn had diligently kept of the legal proceedings of this capital for a thousand years, for whatever book contained the legal code of Doriath. She growled in frustration and quickly plastered a hand over her mouth as a very severe looking elf gave her a disapproving look as if to say, don't you know you're in a library? She could hardly imagine Celeborn in here, she thought with a smile, he would be far too loud, cursing up a storm, laughing, antagonizing anyone who had the audacity to tell him he ought to be quiet.

She closed her eyes in frustration as she failed yet again: animal husbandry. That was hardly what she was looking for. Perhaps they were up in the treetops. She looked up, up, up, high into the canopy of emerald leaves veined with gold that adorned the stone, but oh-so-real looking trees that held up the enchanted ceiling, across which the sun was slowly floating, where tiny sparrows flitted about. Then she began to ascend the trees one by one, climbing the spindly silver staircases, examining each and every book until she reached the very tiptop before descending again. It was tedious work and before long noon had passed. Most of the Sindar had retired and the room was nearly empty.

She leaned back against a tree, crossing her arms over her chest. Perhaps she should simply ask someone, but then again, that might raise suspicions and it was entirely possible that there was no answer at all to her questions. Then she would look like a fool. She began to chew her lip and she could almost hear her mother scolding her for it, _stop that Nerwen! You'll be sorry later if you keep that up!_ She grinned and looked up into the top of the tree she was leaning against.

That was when something caught her eye, a glint of silver, and she squinted. But, in the next moment she was sure of it, silver hair hanging off the edge of the talan high above. _It could be Thingol,_ she thought, as she began to climb the winding staircase up into the tree, _but probably not, hopefully not._ Still, if it were Celeborn instead he would certainly tease her mercilessly for this, she was sure of it. But frustration had long since driven her past the point where she cared about pride.

Her arrival at the top of the staircase was met by a strange sight, though she could not be entirely surprised, for it was, after all, a very Celeborn thing to be doing. "Hello Nerwen," he said without looking up from whatever he was reading. He was lying prone on the floor of the talan, his long hair draped over the edge. There was a half empty pitcher of beer at his side that he appeared to have been drinking from, though it seemed as though it had been many hours since it was last cold, an almost certainly dead duck at his side, and his leather hunting armor and bow were hanging from one of the many branches that encircled them. He was dressed rustically in a simple white linen shirt with a moss green suede jerkin, brown breeches, and a hunting belt. He was barefoot, having removed his boots, and she could see the hilts of his knives sticking out of the tops of them. He must have been hunting. She caught a whiff of sweat, glanced covertly at the open collar of his shirt. He seemed unconcerned by her arrival and reached into his breeches, scratching.

"Ugh." Galadriel made a face but a grin slipped out anyway. "What in Yavanna's name is the matter with you?" He grinned too. "And don't call me, 'Nerwen,'" she added as an afterthought.

"Yes your worshipfulness, of course your honor," he replied. "Are there any other commands you would like to give to me in my own palace?" He had been very cheeky since the long peace began.

"Celeborn," she began, "I need your help."

"Oh and is that how you think you'll get it," he asked, putting his book down at last, "by coming up here and insulting me?"

"I'm sorry," she said, seating herself beside him, cross-legged.

"I was joking," he said with a grin, sitting up. "Beer?" He offered her the pitcher. She rolled her eyes but she could hardly keep from laughing. It was good to see him in such good spirits again after all this mess at Himring with her cousins.

"I suppose," she said, taking the pitcher and drinking straight from it. It was warm. She swallowed with a grimace. "What are you doing awake at this hour anyway?" She asked him.

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

"Funny," she remarked, "me either. I suppose you might know already but I turned down Venessiel's offer."

"I suspected that," he replied. "She seemed a horrible mess the other day at the council meeting."

"Oh how did that go?" Galadriel asked him.

"Well," he said. "The measure passed. But somehow…I don't know. I can't put my finger on it but something about it bothered me. Saeros abstained; he didn't even bother to show, but other than that it was unanimous. I suppose," he paused. "It should have been your victory too. You worked for it. You sacrificed for it. Fingon fought for it. I know that everything my people did to pass this vote helped, but the fact of the matter is that if it hadn't been for Fingon's victory it never would have happened. And, what is more, you stood by me through it all, listened to all of my concerns, my complaints, encouraged me even, and you got none of the credit whatsoever, though it is your victory as well."

Galadriel laughed, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I didn't do it for the credit," she said, "I did it for Doriath, for you, for Melian, for Thingol, for Luthien, for my friends, and even for everyone who hates me."

"I know," Celeborn said, "but it bothers me all the same. And then there was something about Saeros abstaining, about how he couldn't even be bothered to show up for the vote, to accept that he had failed, to understand that the will of the people stood against him…that they want peace, and reconciliation, and a new future, a future where this bitterness between our peoples is ended – not war and violence."

"Well someone who is probably far wiser than I give her credit for once told me that you can't fix everyone, Celeborn. Some people are just broken and they like being that way. Instead, think about the future that lies ahead, concentrate on this treaty that the council will draw up, think about the good that will come to Doriath in this time of peace." He nodded.

"You've changed, Galadriel," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "Do you know that?" She blushed and shook her head.

"Only a little," she said. "I still have a long way to go, I think, before I am rid of my Noldorin pride." She smiled wryly.

"That," he said, "is how I know you have changed." The silence stretched between them, full of unsaid things and Galadriel found herself wondering once more why he said nothing to her of what she almost certainly believed to be in his heart.

"Will you help me?" She asked him. He looked up from where he had been contemplating his dead duck.

"Of course I'll help you," he said and she told him what she needed. He had known exactly where everything was but the main problem she had now was that she could not read the older materials, for they were written in old Doriathrin and Celeborn had to translate them to her aloud in modern Doriathrin, asking her which parts she needed to know. It was, therefore, no surprise when they finished as evening was drawing nigh and Celeborn raised his head, looking at her with a mischievous smile saying, "I do believe that I have discerned what you are up to, Galadriel, and you and Thingol seem to be on the same page."


	24. Kith and Kin

  
**Kith and Kin**

In Cavern's Shade: 24th Chapter

*****

"What I feel for you can't be conveyed in phrasal combinations;  
It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent  
but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise."

-Katherine Mansfield, The Collected Stories

*****

**Author's note:** Enter Maedhros and Maglor…

I think we are all going to, understandably, be frustrated with Celeborn for a little longer but believe me, he has his reasons and it will all be worth it. I promise that you will not be mad at him any longer by the end of part 2! Again, if anyone has any questions please message me. I love answering questions and just talking Tolkien in general.

*****

"Galadriel!" Thingol's booming laugh rang out as the Noldo was ushered into his office. "You are a delightfully refreshing sight for sore eyes. Do you know that?"

"I am glad to hear it," she said, taking the seat offered her by the king after she had bowed. She glanced up, noticing to her surprise that Thingol was wearing the Elessar. It glimmered there at his throat, a brilliant star of green and silver. The king glanced down at it, having noticed where she was looking.

"Ah," he said with a grin. "I thought it rather appropriate at last, what with Fingon's victory all of our prospects seem to be looking up do they not?" It was working its power upon him, gladdening his heart, soothing his soul; she could see it and it made her smile.

"They do indeed," Galadriel said, smoothing her skirt. Her clothes were nothing spectacular, merely a simple blue cotton gown and a plain silver necklace. She had carefully stored her money away over the course of a century and, if she managed to make this plan succeed then she would most certainly need all of it.

"I expect by now that you have heard that my nephew, the prince's vote was successful?" Thingol asked her with a smile, folding his hands before him on his desk. "When I saw your name on the petition list for today I wondered if that might be what you had come to speak to me about." Galadriel smiled. Trust a Sindarin king to get directly to the point. In Valinor they would have spent hours in pleasantries before getting to business.

"Then you have guessed well your Majesty, for indeed, that is in part why I have come to speak to you." She would do him the same courtesy of straightforwardness. She knew he would appreciate it.

"And the other part?" Thingol inquired, looking inquisitive.

"Doriath ought to have an ambassador to the Noldor," she began. "Indeed, this kingdom ought to have had one for some time now. But, in light of recent events, I believe that such a post is now even more necessary. Things have improved of late but still we must tread carefully for a while yet, particularly where Maedhros and Maglor are concerned. Another disaster such as the one at Himlad would be crippling for this kingdom but we are on the cusp of opportunity. If the treaty negotiations are handled properly then we can most assuredly achieve a result that is beneficial to both Noldor and Sindar. All of Beleriand would profit from such a thing."

"I must admit that I have been considering such an idea for a while now," Thingol said. "But what with the dearth of suitable Noldor, I believed it would be impossible to fill such a position."

"That is the case no longer," Galadriel said. "A suitable candidate sits before you now." Thingol laughed and she knew that he was pleased by her boldness.

"You are indeed an intrepid soul," Thingol said. "It is rather refreshing to hear confidence from you rather than pride. You never cease to amaze me." He put a hand to his chin in contemplation. "And why you?"

Galadriel laughed. "Well," she said, "I could say that it is a simple matter in that I am the only Noldo in your capital city and, indeed, in the entirety of your kingdom. But there are numerous reasons and better ones than that as to why I am ideally qualified. Very few Noldo have spent time in Doriath and, of those who have, including my brothers, I am the only one who has spent a significant enough amount of time here. I have a superior command not only of the culture and customs of my own people, but of your people as well. I can understand and respect the Sindarin point of view, Sindarin history, Sindarin language. What is more, while I may not hold a high standing amongst your people, I am a princess of Aman. The blood of the Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri flows in my veins. I am the daughter of the High King of the Noldor. This is something that the Noldor respect, bloodlines, position. Even those Noldor who might not wish to deal with me must do so. I cannot be ignored, even by those who have no fondness for me."

"Maedhros and Maglor are reasonable and can be dealt with in a reasonable manner," she said. "But particularly where Maedhros is concerned, proper etiquette and Noldorin customs must be followed. He is the eldest son of Finwe's eldest son. Proper respect and procedure mean a great deal to him. If we are able to impress upon him our goodwill and our desire for mutual understanding then I believe that not only can we achieve our goal, but perhaps we can even profit. Long has Maedhros desired some diplomatic contact with Doriath as a symbol of his legitimacy. He would not throw away this chance. He is not as his younger brothers. He desires to make things right and he alone of the Feanorians can rein in and control Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir."

"You have always been a reliable source of reliable information," Thingol said. "As such, I would know, who would you suggest as members of the treaty party?" But Galadriel fell silent.

"I have already said more than one should when one is yet unassured of position," she made reply but Thingol only laughed.

"You have learned a great deal haven't you, Galadriel?" He sounded very pleased. "Do not worry. The position is yours," he said. "I very much wish for peaceful relations with your people and I am open, as I am sure you wish to suggest, to the future renewal of an alliance with Felagund at Nargothrond." Galadriel slowly let out the breath that she did not know she had been holding and Thingol leaned back in his chair. He appeared so at ease, happier, indeed, than she ever believed she had seen him.

"Maedhros will only bargain with someone he deems to be of equal rank," Galadriel said.

"Luthien," Thingol replied but, slowly, Galadriel shook her head. She hated to do it, for she knew how much Luthien longed for such an opportunity and she had no doubt that her friend would do a splendid job of it but it would not be appropriate, not for a prince of the Noldor.

"Respectfully I must object," she said. "Princesses are not recognized as heirs amongst my people and though Maedhros, unlike his younger brothers, will respect the station of a Sindarin prince as equal, even he would not see fit to treat with a princess. It must be a male who will lead the negotiations." Thingol sighed as if disappointed.

"Celeborn then," Thingol said and Galadriel nodded. "So I suppose you will advise Celeborn, and he will speak?" She nodded again. "The two of you do work well together," Thingol said, "but my nephew sometimes…well he can balk at taking another's advice, particularly when it contradicts whatever notion he has in his head."

"Oh I shall have him quite in hand, I am sure," she said and Thingol burst into laughter.

"Others of very high standing ought to be a requisite as well," she told him, "a military figure, Mablung perhaps, and I believe you ought to send Dairon."

"Dairon?" Thingol laughed, "whatever for? He is a minstrel, not a diplomat."

"Maglor is exceedingly fond of music," Galadriel told him, "and I have no doubt that he has heard of Dairon, even studied his music most probably. He would see it as a great honor and, as there will doubtlessly be several days of feasting, per Noldorin tradition, before the negotiations commence, his services would be of great use to us."

"Very well," Thingol said with a grin. "And what of customs? You know better than I…"

"We ought to prepare very fine gifts for Maedhros and Maglor," she said, "and I believe we ought to be careful as to our attire. The clothes should be very formal, the armor of plate, if possible. It should, of course, be Sindarin in nature but I would use rather more jewels than usual, for that would impress them most greatly. Furthermore, I would caution against any Telerin likeness, or anything that might be reminiscent of your Telerin brethren. Invoking the memory of the kinslaying would be a sure way to draw their ire." Thingol nodded.

"And you should write to Maedhros yourself, announcing your intent and asking his permission to treat," Galadriel said. "I can advise you as to the style and will countersign myself." Thingol nodded in approval.

"Very well, Galadriel," he said when they had finished speaking, "you shall be sworn in two weeks hence and then we shall get down to the business of drawing up this treaty."

"My thanks, your Majesty," she said, rising and dipping into a low bow, brimming with joy as she swept from the King's office. Celeborn was at the door and she grinned at him in passing, eliciting a laugh. He had almost certainly surmised what she was up to for he grinned in return, though they said nothing to each other. There would be time enough for that later, time when they could be alone.

The prince stepped into the King's office and seated himself in the same chair that Galadriel had recently vacated, leaning back so that only the back two legs of it were on the ground. He crossed his legs at the ankles, propping them up on the table. If Melian had been there she would no doubt have scolded him but Thingol did not mind.

"She said she has you 'quite in hand,'" Thingol chuckled.

"Oh did she now?" Celeborn exclaimed, his silver brows inching up. The king laughed, his deep voice filling the chamber with mirth, and he hardly seemed able to stop his laughter, even though it impeded his speech.

"That…" he said, pointing a stern finger at his nephew, "is a fine woman. Forget everything I have ever said about her. You shall find none finer and if you do not love her then may the Valar help you, you are a fool! Go! There is no time to waste. Chase after her! Take her diamonds and roses. Woo her. Wed her, bed her this very evening." Celeborn's face went as red as a poppy as he grinned sheepishly and cast his eyes down, waving a hand at Thingol as if to dismiss what the king had said.

"That is the Elessar talking," he protested. "It is only the Elessar talking."

*****

Galadriel walked purposefully through the hallways, greeting those she met politely but she was aware of the curious stares that followed her for it had been a long time indeed since she dressed in the fashion of the Noldor and yet she felt that in this instance it was not only appropriate, but necessary. She took a deep breath, or as deep as she was able, for she found herself just now remembering how very structured and stiff Noldorin clothing was.

The skirt, a cream colored crepe silk trimmed with an ornate and heavy hem of gold lace, was airy enough, but the dress she wore overtop, which was really more of a tunic than anything except that it was long in both the front and the back with the side of the skirt open, was of a thick and suffocating red brocade richly embroidered with complex patterns of gold thread. The cuffs were tight and the golden clasps down the front were tight as well. Indeed, the Sindarin tailor that she had employed to make it had looked at her with something akin to disbelief, as though he did not understand how her people could wear such restricting clothing all day long. Her hair she had pulled back into a red and gold hood with a cream colored veil and at her throat glittered a simple collar of sapphires and amber stones.

"You must think," Celeborn had told her, "about what you want them to see in you." And, she had known the answer to that question right away. She wanted them to see that a Noldo could be loyal to Doriath, that a Noldo could do good for Doriath, that a Noldo could have their best interests at heart, and that it was possible for them to work together with a Noldo to achieve their goals.

The thought caused her to remember Thingol's words. "You would seek to become one of us?" he had asked. "I am a princess of the house of Finwe," she had replied. She would not pretend to be what she was not, instead, she would be as she was. A Noldo in Sindarin clothing was still a Noldo. It was clear to her now that, even if she were to live her for 10,000 years, even if she were to abandon her own culture entirely, to take a Sindarin husband, to raise her children as Sindar, to forget her native tongue even, they would still consider her a Noldo all the days of her life. There was no use in pretending it was not so, but there was much to be gained, she believed, by acknowledging her heritage openly, for there was no one who was more sick and tired of divisions between peoples than Galadriel and if marching into Thingol's council chamber looking as though she had come straight from Valinor was what it took to break down barriers then she was more than willing to do so.

The footman standing at the door bowed to her slightly before he opened it and she swept into the council chamber, doing her best to act as though this were nothing out of the usual. "Ladies, Gentlemen, good evening," she greeted those gathered there politely before taking the seat that was indicated to be hers. Venessiel was already there and Mablung as well, she noted, but not everyone had arrived yet.

She had hardly had that thought before the door opened to admit Saeros. He glanced towards her briefly, a smile twisting itself across his face before he took his seat. "It seems that we have a blossom of Tirion in our midst today," he said to her. He knew well enough why she was here, even if he was unhappy about it and she knew that his comment had been meant to shame her for her heritage.

"Whether I am a blossom I cannot say," she replied with a polite smile, "but Noldorin clothes are so horridly uncomfortable that I do rather feel I am wilting." That drew a laugh from several of them and quieted Saeros. He seemed to have the good sense to realize that he could not now change her appointment and that maligning her would only bury him deeper in his hole and so he showed no further interest in her.

"Mind your fingers, Saeros, it seems the blossom has thorns," Venessiel said with a grin. That drew another round of laughter forward. Galadriel smiled. She had been worried over how the minister of the treasury would treat her but it seemed that she held no grudge after all.

The rest of the counselors filtered in gradually and at last they all stood as Thingol arrived with Celeborn on his heels. The king took his seat and, without further ado, said, "Well then, let us swear our new ambassador in and then get down to the business of drawing up this treaty," he said it without looking up as he thumbed through a stack of papers, as though it were the most matter of fact and normal thing in the world. Galadriel found that she was exceedingly grateful for that, for it presented no opportunity for anyone to argue, or fight, or cause a scene. "We have received word from Maedhros," Thingol said, "and he has welcomed our invitation to negotiate. I…" he looked up, "trust that you all are planning on attending the festivities this evening?" His glance was met by a room full of nods. "Well then," he said, "Galadriel, if you would please stand and we shall swear you in."

It had been two hundred years since there had last been a feast in Galadriel's honor in Menegroth and at that time she had been known as Artanis. She had drunk too much, she knew, but not enough to be drunk, just tipsier than she had expected. It seemed that they were all more or less in that state. The alcohol gave her some courage that she had otherwise been lacking and she had gradually made her way towards Celeborn, plopping down on the cushions at his side and he looked over at her, laughing. He had been talking to Mablung but Mablung stood, saying he needed to speak to Thingol, and moved away through the crowd.

"Years may have passed, but I haven't forgotten," she said quietly, "the night that the long peace began." She had no idea what was holding Celeborn back, Celeborn who always spoke his mind, Celeborn who never stayed his hand, Celeborn who had long ago pursued her with such blatant disregard for propriety and rules. Yes, they had said that they no longer loved each other, and they hadn't, but that had been a very long time ago, over a century in fact, and her heart had changed, she believed his had too. Or perhaps it had not changed at all, perhaps she simply had not recognized her feelings for him for what they were – love – for she had never felt for anyone what she felt for him now, so how ought she to have recognized it before? Why else would she be having these strange visions of him?

"I do not know what you are speaking of," he murmured, not daring to look at her. She knew why. He could not now meet her eyes without betraying his heart. She knew him, she knew him better than anyone; she would have read the love written there as if he were an open book.

"Lies do not sit well upon you, Celeborn," she replied. "You have always been a man who takes what he desires, have you not?" He loved her too, she was nearly sure of it, but though her heart ached with sadness for it, she could not force his hand, would not force it if he was yet unready, though she could not imagine what it was that must be causing his delay, what was holding him back during a time of peace and prosperity where everyone else was making the most of opportunity. She was surprised to find that there was no anger in her heart, that she did not resent him for having turned her away, only sorrow that their hearts had not risen at the same moment.

"We should not speak of such things, not here, not now," he replied, his voice terse, rigid, staid. And with that she knew that things could go no further, not at this moment. It was a hopeless cause. But at least he had not denied it this time.

"Well then," she said, "I trust you know where to find me if ever the time for speaking is at hand." She had risen, moving amongst the others then, speaking to many and even to Venessiel, who seemed to bear her no resentment. The lady was gracious and kind, as ever, only expressing her sadness that things had not worked out but praising Bainwen's work and imploring Galadriel to come visit her whenever she liked.

Despite the pleasant conversation, there was something about speaking to Celeborn that had put a damper on the whole evening for Galadriel and it was no more than a few hours later that she took leave of the feast in her own honor, winding her way slowly back to her new rooms. They were nothing grand, for she hadn't the money yet for anything like that, only a few small rooms in a very out of the way and inconvenient district of the capital city. She wished that she wasn't so affected by him, the alcohol certainly was not helping, but she felt almost as though he had been unfriendly to her. There was nothing he had ever refused to share with her before. Well, she thought, there is nothing I can do about it I suppose. But she made a note in her mind to reprimand him, to remind him that they had agreed to be honest with one another.

She had arrived at her rooms at last and she closed the door behind her and tiptoed over the clutter that she had yet to sort and unpack, books, and dishes, candlesticks and all manner of other things. She wondered how she had managed to acquire so much in only a hundred years on such a small salary and sighed as she removed her hood and veil, hanging them haphazardly on the branch of one of the stone beeches that adorned her chambers.

Resolving to push Celeborn from her mind for the moment, she smiled and reached out again to touch the stone bark of that tree, so lifelike she could almost believe it to be real, and then she stretched, sighing again as she began to undo the myriad buttons that ran down the front of her gown. Noldorin clothing was so very tiresome and rigid.

"Rather like a butterfly shedding her cocoon," a voice said softly and Galadriel nearly jumped out of her skin, pulling the front of the heavily brocaded gown shut overtop of her thin chemise. It was only then that she noticed Celeborn, lounging about on the floor, a glass of wine in hand and his back against her bed, watching her lazily. She did not know which protest to make first.

"Were you just going to sit there and allow me to undress before you unawares?" She spluttered, her face coloring in embarrassment. "Some friend you are." Her feelings were even more unbalanced by the fact that she had no idea why he was here. Was he taking her up on her offer to speak about things in private? He had seemed so unwilling to discuss it only an hour earlier.

"You've nothing I haven't seen before," Celeborn said as if this were inconsequential. It seemed a rather bold thing to say given how reserved he had been only an hour before, given the uncertain state of things between them. Galadriel glanced down and realized the reason why: there was a nearly empty bottle of wine at his side. Drunken bravado.

"That was a long time ago and under far different circumstances," she retorted.

"I am in plain view," Celeborn said. "I am surprised you did not notice me sooner."

"What you Sindar consider to be plain view is what others would normally consider hidden," she made reply but Celeborn only grinned.

"You Noldor and your strange prudery," Celeborn laughed and Galadriel thought she must have looked very angry indeed for, chuckling, the prince raised a hand in a gesture of peace and said, "peace! Peace, Lady! I meant no harm. If I had I would not have said anything at all and would have allowed you to continue."

"Well!" Galadriel spluttered, still feeling the heat in her face as she hurried to redo the buttons. Celeborn had the good sense to look away, pretending as if he were suddenly interested in the wall until she was proper again. She was still suspicious of him, had no idea what on earth he thought he was doing. He seemed strangely unsettled. "You might have said something sooner." She chastised him. "And why are you here anyway? Do you think that because you are the prince of Doriath you can traipse about wherever you please without leave?"

"More or less," Celeborn replied with a grin, giving her no satisfactory answer. That frustrated her further.

"That is highly inappropriate," she cautioned him. "These are my private quarters." She made sure to put adequate emphasis on the word 'private.' Celeborn had the good sense to feign a modicum of shame but Galadriel found she could not be entirely mad at him. She had, after all, told him to find her. What was more, despite his cautious reserve of earlier this evening, it had been good lately to see him so jovial, happy, so young again, as if all of the troubles of the past two centuries had been washed away. He seemed his old self.

"I just wanted to speak with an old friend," he said, "away from the prying eyes of others." Galadriel was not quite sure what to make of that. She felt he was being intentionally obtuse.

"Are you…are you drinking my wine?" She asked him, eyeing the glass and the empty bottle quizzically. It seemed to be one of hers.

"Oh, ah, well, yes…" Celeborn replied, grinning at her sheepishly. Galadriel laughed.

"Ah the life of a Doriathrin prince, sneaking into ladies' bedchambers, drinking their wine, lounging about on their cushions…" Galadriel teased him, letting her hair down from the pins that had bound it up and shaking out the braids.

"Yours is the first bedchamber I have ever snuck into," Celeborn said, wagging a finger at her and Galadriel raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

"I almost get the impression that you expect me to feel honored by that," she said with a laugh.

"Perhaps," Celeborn said with an intolerably smug grin on his face. Grinning, Galadriel rolled her eyes, taking up her hairbrush and sitting in a chair opposite him. Her mind strayed suddenly to a meadow in spring, full of lush, tall, green grasses and stalks of soft, tiny, pink flowers, a hand not her own, though she felt the same sensations it felt, reaching out to brush over the rustling tops of the cool, soft grasses.

"You are incorrigible; do you know that?" She asked with a grin.

"I have been told so many a time," he replied with a laugh. Galadriel glanced over at him with a smile. She was glad, after all, she found, that he was here. This day had been more stressful than she had thought and his company was a bigger relief than she had anticipated, even if it was drunken company.

He seemed to have changed out of the formal garments he had worn earlier this evening and now he wore a simple tunic and breeches, his feet bare, his silver hair unbound, which made it all the more amusing that he was wearing a rather extraordinary crown, one she did not believe she had ever seen before. It was a band of black hematite, as were the other ones he wore, but this one was far more elaborate and less simple, set with gems in the colors of the forest, rich green emeralds, brilliant honey-colored stones of amber, sapphires as deep and blue as the Sirion. From the sides of it hung elaborately knotted black cords upon which were strung flawless pearls from the Falas, and polished beads of wood, topaz, and animal bone, ornately carved. Celeborn did not make a habit of wearing crowns even in the most formal of situations and she wondered what he was up to.

"Very fine is it not?" He said, grinning and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"It is indeed rather impressive," she replied with a grin of her own, "though I am afraid your clothes do not do it justice." Celeborn laughed. It seemed as though their conversation from earlier this evening had been completely forgotten.

"That's quite alright," he said. "I only wanted you to see it. It's new. Uncle had it made for me. It seems I am to wear it to Himring." And at that Galadriel burst into full-fledged laughter, laughing until her sides hurt and tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, are you entirely serious?" She gasped, clutching at her now-aching stomach. "Do you mean to tell me that that is why you are here? That you waited here simply so you could show me your new crown?" His sheepish grin confirmed it and sent her into another spasm of laughter. "Celeborn," she said, when she had finally gained control of herself again, "that is something I would rather expect from a handmaiden hoping to show off her new jewelry."

"I assure you I am no handmaiden," Celeborn grinned, finishing off the last of the wine.

"If you would like to apply for the position, I am currently without one," Galadriel teased him. "I've been far too busy to set my household affairs in order just yet."

"You mean you have been living like this for weeks?" Celeborn asked mockingly, looking around at the untidy surroundings, the unmade bed, the unpacked crates lying here and there. Galadriel rolled her eyes as she worked at untangling a particularly aggressive knot in her hair. "What a pity that you have to brush your hair yourself," Celeborn teased her. "Is it too difficult for you, your worshipfulness?" Galadriel gave him a warning glare in jest and brandished the brush at him.

"I am perfectly capable, your highness," she told him, resuming her task. "And besides, I have never allowed anyone but myself to brush my hair anyway. You know that." But Celeborn stood, slowly approaching her and she laughed, eyeing him with mock suspicion. "What are you doing?" She asked with a grin, teasing him.

"Nothing," he replied, laughing, but his hand closed overtop of hers on the brush and he tugged gently at it until she released her grip, relinquishing it to him. She felt his fingertips ghost across the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine as he lifted her golden hair and slowly, gently began to brush it. Galadriel felt her breath, or maybe it was her heart, catch in her throat and she swallowed hard, for it felt as though her fëa itself was about to leap out of her mouth.

Celeborn could feel his hand trembling as he held the soft silk of her golden hair in his hand. It had been mad and foolish for him to come here, he knew it, but he had seemed to find himself at her door with no idea of how he had gotten there. The alcohol had certainly not helped matters. Why he was doing this, brushing her hair, touching her, why she had allowed him to do this he did not know; he had thought she would push him away, tease him, but she had not, and now he felt nearly lost, lost in the sea of her and his mind slipped away to a far off place. On a verdant hill of lush grasses stood two trees, impossibly tall, one of glowing silver, silver as bright as the moon, and the other of the richest gold, gold burning like the sun. For a moment they radiated pure light, dawn and dusk intermingling, a perfect beauty.

"What…what are you…doing?" He heard the stammered question and swallowed. His throat felt intolerably dry.

"Nothing," he whispered in reply, because he could not let go of her, absolutely could not, would sooner have let go of his own life than relinquish her touch. She turned, reaching up, stilling his hand, and stood. He could not puzzle out whatever it was in her eyes and wondered if his own must look equally as convoluted; they must. The brush clattered to the floor as she took his hands in hers.

They stood then for a while, hand in hand, eyes tight closed against the world and against everything, his brow upon hers, breathing softly, quietly. And then he backed away, gently, slowly, his eyes flitting to hers and she looked at him sweetly, lovingly, as if she wondered if she had done something wrong. She hadn't, but Celeborn did not trust himself, for he knew that if he stayed with her this night they would cross that final boundary, they would bind themselves to one another as husband and wife both in body and in spirit. The same thought was doubtlessly present in her mind.

"Why do you delay when our hearts are full of one another?" She whispered, confusion in her eyes. But he remembered what he had done, that horrible thing he had done, he remembered how he had bound her to him without her consent, a forbidden bond. Nellas had been able to see it. How long before the others did as well? How long before Galadriel saw it herself? He could not bear to think of the tears that she would shed on his behalf, knowing that he had doomed himself for her sake. It was too horrible, he could not do it to her. She would be better never knowing. She would be better off without him. She would be happy. But is that really what frightens you, Celeborn? The thought resounded in his mind and he pushed it away, convinced himself that his reasons were right, that it was her sorrow that he truly feared. He should never have come here. He ought to have stayed away. He had not been able to help himself.

"We…" His voice fell and lapsed into silence. "We are drunk, Galadriel," he said. "I cannot." He fell silent again before saying, "I must go."

"Why?" She asked him and her eyes, so tender only a moment before flashed in anger. She thought he did not want her. She thought he did not love her, that he had used her. But he did want her, and oh how he loved her.

"I must go," he said again, for he feared what his traitorous heart, what his traitorous body might do if he did not.

"If you meant to leave then why did you come?" She asked, him, her voice hard, laced with anger, and she grasped his arm to prevent him from leaving, forcing him to turn and face her.

"Do you understand what you are asking of me?" He asked, anger growing in his heart, more a reaction of fear than anything else. "Can you not understand why I might…why I might be afraid? Doriath, Menegroth…Galadriel this is all I have ever known! The risk…"

"You would speak to me of risk?" Galadriel said, incensed, "I have risked my heart, which has been broken by Feanor, and by the kinslaying, and by the Helcaraxe, and by my father turning his back on me, by my cousins, by Thingol, by you! How many more times can it break before it is shattered completely? I have risked that for you. Need I say more?"

"Then that is all the more reason that you ought to forget me," he told her, "for I would only lay waste to your heart once more."

"The man I love taught me to confront what fears me, not to run from it." Galadriel was firm.

"Perhaps that man no longer exists," he said, meeting her gaze. She stared at him, her lips barely parted as though she could not believe it.

"You do not trust me, even after all this time," she said and he could hear the pain and anger in her voice.

"I…I trust you more than you know," he said, his throat feeling intolerably dry, his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest. "It is myself that I do not trust. I…if you knew what I had done…" He had not the strength to finish that sentence and so he broke free from her grasp and made a hasty exit, a rude exit even. His body felt too hot, something he could not entirely blame on the irresponsible amount of alcohol that he had consumed and he hardly found any relief upon returning to his chambers, for his rooms seemed nearly a prison and his mind, he knew, was one.

*****

They had heard what Beleg and his wardens had to say but there was nothing like seeing firsthand how the Feanorians' logging operations had devastated the land. Even before they approached the destruction was evident. When the massive trees had been washed down from the mountain they had left deep tracks in the earth and the mud that had come down with them lay thick upon the earth, so deep in some places that it was taller than Celeborn himself.

They stopped periodically to examine the damage, finding that the mudslides had destroyed many trees and that all manner of animals had been caught and drowned and crushed in its murky deaths. The Sindar in this region lived in huts made of brush and animal skins, just as they all had in the distant past, and Celeborn knew how vulnerable such dwellings must be to the destruction.

By midday of the third day since they had set out from Menegroth to treat with the sons of Feanor they had come upon the main city in this area, and they could well see that the destruction here was indeed great. The people stepped aside as they approached, many of them shouting in joyful voices and bowing before them and Celeborn and Oropher stopped to speak to them, inquiring about their families and asking about their homes and land, the rest of their party: Galadriel, the guards, Dairon, the other diplomats following behind.

It was then that the chief of the village emerged from the main house, a long structure to hold the village elders, Nellas. She walked towards them with a purposeful stride, a grin playing about the corners of her lips. "Prince Celeborn, how good it is to see you again. I was most please when I received word that your traveling party would be stopping here on your way to Himring. We look forward to the treaty that you will draw up," she said with a slight bow of her head as she approached, pulling a pair of buff deerskin work gloves from her hands, giving no indication of what had happened when last they had met. "And you are?" she turned to Oropher, who stood at Celeborn's side.

"Oropher, my lady, prince of Doriath and cousin of Prince Celeborn," Oropher replied. Nellas laughed.

"I am no lady, your highness, though I appreciate the courtesy," Nellas said. "I am glad to see all of you here and eager to hear what news there is from Thingol, my king. If you would come with me we might sit inside and I shall explain things to you."

"Very well," Celeborn replied, and he gestured to the soldiers to feed and water their horses while he, Oropher, Mablung, Galadriel, and Dairon followed Nellas within the meeting hall from which she had exited. The doorway was low and they had to stoop to enter, pushing aside a deerskin curtain that hung over the entrance. The room was long and there were several fires down the center, crackling away, the smoke rising up to filter through the holes in the deerskin roof. The fragrant scent of rabbit stew permeated the air as it bubbled away in pots hung over the fires. The floor was dirt and Nellas's councilors sat on boar skins against the walls made of mud and brush. Whenever he entered such a house it reminded Celeborn of his childhood and he could not help but smile. A brief memory flashed through his mind; someone handing him a wooden bowl and a crusty piece of brown bread.

"Please, have a seat," Nellas bid them and the others moved closer as they sat. Those Sindar who did not live within the girdle did not govern themselves in the same fashion as those who lived within. Rather, each village or city was governed by a council whose members were chosen by the people themselves and each council was led by a chief, a position that rotated every century or so amongst the councilmembers. Nellas was currently the chief and, as such, swore allegiance and fealty to Thingol.

"Let us become acquainted," she said, "for there are some here whose faces are familiar but whose names I do not know and there are others whom I have never met, though it may be that your names have reached our ears."

"I am Mablung, general of Doriath, Minister of War, and personal guard of Thingol himself."

"And I am Dairon, loremaster and chief minstrel of my Lord Thingol's kingdom."

"I am Galadriel of the Noldor, the King's ambassador to my people," Galadriel said.

"We have seen one another before," Nellas said to her with a smile and it was a gracious gesture, Galadriel thought, that she had not brought up how when last they had met she had been but a servant. After she had spoken the other more minor diplomats introduced themselves.

"I presume that all of you observed some of the damage on your way in," Nellas began and Celeborn nodded.

"Seeing the damage for ourselves offered an entirely new understanding," Celeborn said.

"I would be surprised if anyone did not find it shocking," Nellas said. "The logs were washed down the mountain first and destroyed many dwellings, we shall show you later, but more lives were lost in the mudslides that followed. With the vegetation gone from the side of the mountain…" she shook her head, "everything was destroyed. We are only now rebuilding but our fields are buried in mud, our crops ruined…"

"Do not worry on that account," Celeborn said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands before him. "We will send you plenty of foodstuffs from the capital. Whatever you have need of we shall provide until such time as you can recuperate fully. I only wish that there were some way to reclaim the lives that have been lost." All of them bowed their heads at those words.

"That is something that only time can return to us," Nellas said and all of them sat in silence for a long while, thinking of all of those whom they had lost. Galadriel bowed her head in respect for this Sindarin tradition and in her mind she remembered those who had perished in the ice and in the starving time, she remembered Elenwe trapped beneath the grinding ice and Idril, her cousin, who had nearly perished with her mother.

"But it is already grown late," Nellas said, waking them from the reverie, "and you must be weary from traveling. Normally we would not sleep during the night but it is best that you be able to observe the damage in the light of day tomorrow. We have prepared a place for you."

"That would be most agreeable," Celeborn said as he and Oropher rose. The other council members came forward to whisper their thanks and speak individually with the princes, shaking their hands. At last Nellas led them from the longhouse and across a clearing to another.

"These houses are new," Oropher said, noting that they had not yet been worn by the elements.

"Yes they are," Nellas said, her stride confident. "Our entire city was destroyed. Everything that you see is new. Here." She lifted the flap of another longhouse and ushered them in. Their soldiers were already inside, talking merrily and eating from the large pots of stew that bubbled over the fire.

"I hope that everything is suitable," Nellas said. "If you are in need of anything do not hesitate to ask."

"Our thanks," Celeborn said as she exited and their party moved to the cots that had been prepared for them.

"There is something charming about Nellas. If I weren't married…" Oropher said with a conspiratory look at his cousin.

"But you are and you ought not speak that way," Celeborn said with a grin, raising a suspicious eyebrow at his cousin. Galadriel chuckled, trying to force herself to be in a better mood, to not ruin this expedition because of her frustration with Celeborn in the wake of their argument, and she saw Mablung shaking his head as he divested himself of his armor. "Besides, she would choose me over you any day," Celeborn said. His true colors had come out. Galadriel took a deep breath. It was a little too soon, she thought, for Celeborn to be laughing about matters of the heart.

"OH!" Oropher cried, pretending to be offended. "Is that so?"

"What's not to like?" Celeborn asked with a catlike grin, holding his hands out and turning this way and that. "You might be able to ask you wife."

"Peace, peace!" Oropher cried with a laugh. "Leave me wife out of this! I was only joking. I know full well that I have been more fortunate in marriage than I deserve."

"How unlucky to have three men who have courted the Venessiel beneath one roof," Galadriel quipped, "we'll never hear the end of their bellyaching," and the soldiers burst into raucous laughter at the expense of Celeborn, Mablung, and Oropher, applauding Galadriel's wit.

"Well then give me a kiss, Galadriel, and Mablung too," Oropher teased, "and you'll be in the same boat!" The soldiers laughed harder.

"Why don't you give Mablung a kiss, Oropher, and then you can be in that boat twice over," Galadriel replied, "I heard you already kissed Celeborn at the long peace." The soldiers were roaring with laughter now and Galadriel grinned, as Oropher surrendered to her. She was surprised at how friendly the younger prince had been to her lately, for he had certainly borne her no fondness when first she had come to Menegroth. Perhaps Venessiel had meant what she said, that things between them were settled and good. Galadriel did not know what to think.

She took off her tunic, deciding to sleep in her breeches and shirt. Tomorrow, she knew, she must don the heavy and cumbersome Noldorin garments that she had brought with her for they would make their arrival at Himring in the evening. She glanced towards Celeborn as she sat on her cot, pulling off her boots. He grinned at her and she smiled back. It seemed that the animosity between them had cooled and yet she was still extraordinarily frustrated with him for his bullheadedness.

Celeborn could not sleep even after the others had long ago fallen into slumber and he stood, making his way outside where he paced amongst the trees, gazing up at the stars above. It wasn't nerves. He was a bit nervous, true, but not frightened of going to Himring tomorrow. It was Galadriel, of course, who kept him up.

A century and more ago he had told her that she would always be second to Doriath, that his love for her could never surpass that of his kingdom. It already had. He did not know when it had happened. He did not know when he had started loving her again, when she had started loving him. And now there was this horrible mess. He shook his head. She once did the same thing, keeping secrets from you that she thought would destroy your heart. The voice of his conscience haunted him. He was afraid she would hate him if he told her, hate him if she knew what he had done, binding himself to her without her consent. And yet she lived because of it. That was all he had wanted – for her to live, to have a future.

"The one called Galadriel, she is the one to whom you are bound," the voice came quiet out of the dark and startled him. Nellas stood there in the path before him, hands in her pockets, watching him.

"Yes," he said. "But it is a blood bond, not a marriage bond." Something about confessing that to someone made him feel a little bit better.

"That is old Sindarin magic - forbidden, dangerous, criminal," Nellas said, "some would say foolish and here I thought you were called Celeborn the Wise."

"I did it to save her life," he said.

"By offering yours in return," Nellas said. "You love her."

"Yes." Silence followed it and then Nellas spoke again.

"I am sorry for what I did," Nellas said. "It was stupid, rude, thoughtless."

"Think nothing of it," Celeborn told her, "I took no offense."

There was another pause and then Nellas said, "she loves you."

"Yes," he said again.

"You love her and she loves you in return," Nellas said. "Should you not be happy? The course of such things does not always run so smoothly for others."

"She does not know yet…about the bond," he said.

"Then you should be telling her," Nellas said, "not me."

"I know," he replied, but Nellas had already disappeared into the trees, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

*****

The fortress at Himring was formidable indeed, with walls that seemed to tower as high as cliffs and, indeed, the fortress itself appeared almost as a mountain so tall that one might have expected to see snow upon its peaks. It was with no small amount of trepidation that Celeborn approached that place for his encounter with Curufin and Celegorm was still fresh in his mind though many years had passed.

There were soldiers who lined the way and they allowed them to pass in peace, for they had awaited their coming, having been notified of their imminent arrival, and these soldiers awakened in Celeborn's mind a certain uneasiness born of his long service in Thingol's military. For these soldiers wore armor the like of which he had never seen before, finer than that of Curufin's men even, glimmering plates of metal and chain mail that covered their entire bodies, helms through which he could see nothing but their eyes, great shields and vicious swords. It was quite different from the armor that his own men wore, stiffened leather and bone, where metal served only as an embellishment or reinforcement, not as the primary component.

This was not to say that Thingol's army never donned metal armor, for they had used chainmail in times of war, and indeed some of his soldiers wore it even now as Galadriel had instructed, but it had never been so complete, so finely wrought, and it caused Celeborn to think that a people so well accustomed to the crafting of such armor must also be much accustomed to the crafting of war. For these two went hand in hand, one following the other as night follows day.

When he thought of this in conjunction with what he knew of the kinslaying his heart grew troubled, as though a shadow had fallen upon it, for he thought that were the Sindar to be assailed by soldiers armored thusly, their skill would count for very little against such superior instruments and they would fall, even as Denethor's people with their weak bows and nothing but their clothing to protect them had been routed so grievously at the Battle of Beleriand. He found himself wishing once more that Thingol had not turned Frerin and the Naugrim away for they might have benefitted indeed to have armor like this.

A great bell in a tall tower chimed the hour as they approached, for already high noon had drawn near when Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, came to the gates of Himring. It was then that a soldier in magnificent armor, enamel as black as a raven's wing but all engraved with gold filigree, stepped forth from the gates as they swung slowly open and approached. A scarlet cape he wore and no helm. His face was fair, with dark eyes that seemed gentle and peaceful despite the fierce glory of his armor, and his hair was the dark color of polished walnut.

"You are the one called Celeborn, the High-Prince of Beleriand are you not?" The soldier asked and his voice was as kind as his eyes, no malice was there in it. And Celeborn was relieved, for this man had spoken to him in Sindarin, and no mere woodland Sindarin, but the noble Sindarin of Thingol's court, and he knew that he need not make an issue over language here, as he had been forced to with Curufin. Perhaps then these two truly were as Galadriel had said and if that were so then it would make his task immeasurably easier, for Oropher would be far more cooperative were he to be treated in such a courtly manner.

"That is so," Celeborn gave reply, bowing his silver head, and he turned, a hand extended towards Oropher saying; "and this is my cousin, Oropher, a prince of Doriath. Galadriel, our ambassador, is your kinswoman, and this is my guard and chief general, Mablung, and Dairon, of the court of Thingol. We are come with our retinue to seek council with the Lord Maedhros and his brother Maglor and also to make their acquaintance, for we have not yet had the honor of meeting them, though neighbors they may be."

"This is well," the Noldo said with a gentle smile, "for I myself am Maglor and it is with great pleasure that I bid you welcome here to Himring." Then the two clasped hands in greeting and presently they passed within the gates, climbing the hill to the castle itself and as they went, Celeborn and Maglor spoke while the Sindarin retinue followed behind.

"I must admit," said Celeborn, "that I was surprised to hear your Sindarin, for it is entirely free from error and, not only that, but your language is that of the finest and most noble sort of the court of Menegroth and I marvel that you should know it having never been there yourself." He spoke carefully, in a courtly manner, taking the time to say the words, as Galadriel had instructed him was proper.

"Surely you are too kind," Maglor said, "for Sindarin I learned from those of your people that I encountered in the woods and of Doriathrin I know only what I have been able to study in books or songs and I have been able to procure far fewer of those than I should like."

"So it is a study that you have pursued it would seem," Celeborn remarked.

"Indeed that is so," said Maglor.

"If I might be permitted to hazard a guess, would it be possible that your interest in the language stems from your love of music?" Celeborn inquired.

"Aye," Maglor replied, his face visibly brightening at the mention of his longtime passion. "For there are none among my own people who compare in skill to your Dairon and I regret that I have been unable to hear his music with my own ears, yet I have spent many hours in the study of his songs and I found both the words and the melodies to be surpassingly fair. Thus have I endeavored to master the language so that I too might aspire to create such wonderful music. Yet, though Dairon may be the greatest musician in all of Beleriand, Doriath has others of renown does she not? I have heard that your brother, Galathil, is also quite musically gifted."

"That is indeed true," Celeborn said. So the Feanorians had done their research as well, he mused. "Though Galathil's mind turns more towards instruments while Dairon's turns to song. A Linda I may be, but it seems that my brother got the greater part of the musical talent."

"And yet you can sing, or so I have heard," Maglor said.

"On occasion," Celeborn replied.

"It would be an honor to accompany you," the Noldo said with an almost childish delight. For I have long admired the musical talent of the Lindar but never have I had the joy of accompanying one of you in song."

"If that would be agreeable to you then I should certainly hope that we have the opportunity," Celeborn said, a bit surprised by how open-minded he found the son of Feanor to be. "And, indeed, this evening, if time and company permits, you shall be able to hear the songs of Dairon yourself, for this Dairon with me here now is one and the same as the singer of which you know."

"Is that so?" Maglor asked, looking astounded, and he bowed his head in great reverence. "Then I assure you that I await our feasting with eager anticipation."

"But I beg you not raise your hopes too high regarding me," Celeborn said with a laugh, "for I believe that, in all probability, your skill surpasses mine and I shall inevitably disappoint you." Galadriel had instructed him to be deferential, to belittle himself and show none of his Sindarin arrogance.

Maglor laughed and then said; "I have heard that you are a soldier rather than a musician."

"That is true," Celeborn told him, "and as such I must say how interested I am in your armor and that of your soldiers, for we have not the like of it in Doriath."

"Very well," said Maglor, "then I should be very happy indeed to teach you more of it, though perhaps Maedhros would be the better person to consult, for he is the warrior of the two of us and I the musician, just as with you and your brother."

And now they had reached the castle itself, passing within and it was not the same sort of palace as Menegroth, which was built for beauty, for this had clearly been constructed for protection from siege, and yet it was not unwelcoming, though it was different. The walls and floors were of stone yet the former were covered with rich and colorful tapestries and the latter by thick rugs with arabesque designs, ornate in a tasteful fashion. There were great chandeliers of crystal like great raindrops and cut glass wrapped in gold fixtures that hung from the ceiling and upon the walls were golden lanterns with small glass doors that might be open and shut to tend to the candles within. They were quite unlike the paper lanterns or even the mithril ones of Menegroth. It was filled with none of the sickness that had seemed to permeate the air of Himlad like a plague.

And there they were shown to their quarters and treated with great dignity and respect, all that was due to a royal delegation, and bid to relax and rest themselves from their journey until such time as they were summoned to the feast that was being prepared for them.

"He is not what I had expected," said Oropher, for he had followed Celeborn, wishing to speak to his cousin alone.

"No, indeed he is not," Celeborn replied. "I half feared that we should have a repeat of what Luthien and I suffered at Himlad, despite the fact that Galadriel had said otherwise."

"Fortunate for us that such a thing has not come to pass cousin. The courtesy that Maglor showed us was far more than I expected from any of the Noldor and I find myself glad that we have prepared according to the Finarfiniel's advice, for perhaps it is not a hopeless prospect after all to believe that a suitable treaty might be reached with these two."

"Indeed," Celeborn replied, "though we have yet to meet Maedhros I am hopeful. But what a surprise to hear you speak well of Galadriel." He laughed at his cousin's dour expression.

"You know I like her not, though my wife bears her fondness," Oropher replied. "But perhaps she will be more useful to us than I thought." The two were preparing themselves for the banquet according to her directions. The clothing seemed so formal to Celeborn, for these sort of things they only wore to the most important of events and much of it was new, made especially for this occasion.

The pants were very wide and pleated so that they appeared almost like a skirt that tied about his waist, made of a stiff deep gray silk that shone in the lantern light. There was an undertunic of pale gray linen and overtop of this he wore a silk tunic in the formal style made of dark green silk and emblazoned with the silver crest of Thingol. His robe was of an even darker green velvet and this had no sleeves but hung long in back and in the front, the front being open like a jacket, and it was pinned to his shoulders with two elegant broaches of mithril shaped like oak leaves. Likewise, the sigil of the Prince of Doriath was pinned to his chest and he placed his crown upon his head, its weight unfamiliar to him. Oropher was dressed in the same manner, save more simply as was appropriate to his rank, and wore only a simple silver circlet upon his brow. Having arrayed themselves thusly, they were prepared when the servants came to summon them to the banquet and with them they took the gifts that had been carefully prepared for Maglor and Maedhros.

It was a feast fit for a king, with all manner of dishes and fine wines and even the flatware itself was of gold while the plates were glimmering crystal. Then did Celeborn and Oropher sit at Galadriel's side and for the first time they beheld Maedhros. He too, like his brother, was tall, but neither of them were as tall as Celeborn, and Maedhros's hair was dark red, the color of the autumn leaves, and fell in waves past his shoulders. His eyes were blue and had a quickness to them and there was an intensity to them that was not present in Maglor's, though neither of them seemed to bear the same madness as Curufin and Celegorm. One could tell by looking at the face of Maedhros that he was very astute indeed.

"So," he said, "at last Thingol has sent me an emissary of his own people and I am glad of this, for I would rather have direct dealings with your people than through the mediation of the sons of Finarfin." He spoke with a certain confidence that seemed to radiate from his whole body and by his words Celeborn knew him to be frank in opinion and less polite, perhaps than his younger brother. And so, he thought, it is as Maglor said, that he is as to me as Maglor is to Galathil. It would be prudent then, he reasoned, to take greater care with Maedhros, for one would not be able to speak to him with the same ease and unguarded words as with Maglor.

"In my estimation far too long a time has passed," said Celeborn, "so that our absence seems to have matured almost to rudeness." And Maedhros gave him an appraising look that, couple with a satisfied smile, seemed to indicate that Celeborn had judged correctly that he would respect directness in return.

"I must say that you are not what I expected, Prince of Doriath."

"And neither are you what I expected," Celeborn replied. Their eyes met in a silent detente until at last Maedhros laughed and Celeborn grinned. "Yet perhaps I might be able to make some sort of amends," the prince said, "for we have brought you gifts from Thingol himself that I hope will be most pleasing to you."

"A very welcome gesture," Maedhros said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and, with a signal, one of the servants stepped forward, handing Celeborn a long box. The Sinda was careful not to look at his handless wrist. From the box the prince took a belt and scabbard of black leather, stitched with gold thread and inlaid with precious metals and encrusted with jewels of all colors. Truly, it was a sight to behold, the finest work of the smiths of Menegroth.

"A gift for you, Maedhros, in appreciation for your continued fight against Morgoth. May this scabbard provide a suitable home for your valiant sword and may it further assist you in battle." And Maedhros took the present, clearly pleased, and admired it greatly, thanking Celeborn many times. The smiths had carefully weighted the scabbard so that it was heavier at the bottom than the top, making it easier to draw a sword from it single handed.

"And for you, Maglor," Celeborn said, gesturing to another servant to step forward, "a gift that I hope you will find most enjoyable." And he took from the box a harp of fawn colored beach wood with fittings of soft gold, its strings of silver. The body of the harp was elegant and light and most pleasing in appearance, for it had been finely carved with patterns of vines and flowers, a most beautiful instrument.

Maglor too was overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift and he could not be contented until after he had played a song upon it, after which he praised the superior sound that its strings produced. Having dispensed with formalities, and having nurtured a most genial atmosphere besides, they at last settled into their dinner, and after that they passed many pleasant hours in conversation and in music ere they adjourned to bed.


	25. Atonement

  
**Atonement**

In Cavern's Shade: 25th Chapter

*****

"It is to be broken. It is to be  
torn open. It is not to be  
reached and come to rest in  
ever. I turn against you,  
I break from you, I turn to you.  
We hurt, and are hurt,  
and have each other for healing.  
It is healing. It is never whole."

― Wendell Berry, The Collected Poems, 1957-1982

*****  


**Author's note:** Footnote at the bottom regarding some important canon Tolkien stuff that comes up in this chapter.

This chapter is near and dear to my heart because it deals with strip mining, also known as mountaintop removal, which has completely devastated and destroyed the community in which I was raised. Wendell Berry, who is quoted above, writes extensively about this, which is why he is one of my favorite authors. When I was formulating how I wanted to write the Sindarin culture for this story I knew that I really wanted to emphasize the theme of stewardship of nature and how important Middle Earth is to the Sindar, the Green Elves, and the Avari. I really hope I have achieved that in some way and I hope that maybe that can make people more aware of how they treat the environment.

Thank you for reading and if you have time, please review.

*****

"Strike this," Galadriel said, pointing, and Celeborn grit his teeth. He was frustrated and, as ever when he was frustrated, that made him ornery as an old bull. The candles were burning low now, the wax dripping onto the table, the flames nearly extinguished as they burned down into the candleholders themselves. They had been pouring over the treaty all evening, ensuring that it was ready, that it was refined, honed to perfection. But daylight would come upon them soon and, with it, the negotiations would begin. Their personal struggle, however, was exacerbating what was already a tense and frustrating situation. Oropher had given up completely, having bickered enough with the two of them, and lay fast asleep, sprawled across a settee, snoring like a dwarf.

"There is no reason to strike that phrase," he said. "I am the high prince of Beleriand. Historically, Doriath and the princes of the Sindar have…"

"They don't care, historically, what you have controlled and what you have not," Galadriel replied. "In their eyes you are the prince of that which you reign and you do not rule all of Beleriand, not anymore. The Northern lands are beyond your control. Claiming sovereignty over the lands in which the sons of Feanor rule would be a grave affront. They know that Thingol gifted them these lands and they are grateful for it but to directly state it would be to rub it in their faces, and that is something they will not appreciate."

His eyes were hard as he pondered the idea. She could see that he didn't like it at all but she had to admit he deserved some credit for at least considering the issue. She hated arguing like this, especially considering the circumstances between them, but these negotiations were already proving to be extraordinarily stressful and, besides, there was clearly something else bothering Celeborn, something she could not quite ferret out of him.

"Am I to surrender all of Sindarin tradition, Galadriel?" He asked, his words tight with agitation, tapping the end of his pen on the table, the ink spraying out in a fine black mist that coated his knuckles.

"Don't be a fool," the words were out before she could cut them off and she closed her eyes, sighing, angry at herself for having said that. She spread her hands across the draft of the treaty that lay before them. "What I mean is that…that isn't what I mean at all," she said. "We must pick our battles, Celeborn, and you know that. I needn't tell you that it is more important that we expend our energy on getting them to reform their policies than on calling you by the proper title." She was right and he had the sense not to argue with her on the point any longer.

"Would it be suitable for me to write 'High Prince of Doriath and the Falas' instead?" He asked, more than a hint of aggravation in his voice.

"Men," Galadriel sighed. "I am beginning to wonder if you are measuring the length of your titles or the length of your…"

"It isn't about that," Celeborn cut her off. "I'd beg you to recall that I do, actually, care a great deal about my kingdom."

"Celeborn, I'm sorry," Galadriel whispered reaching out to touch his hand in a consoling manner. She knew she had been wrong to say what she had, knew it wasn't productive or fair. The stress of all of this was getting to her. "I believe that would be acceptable." He penned it in. They bent over the document once more.

"This is no good," she said, pointing to the amount specified for reparations.

"What do you mean it is no good?" Celeborn asked her, clearly cross. "This is the amount that the council decided upon that we are expected to procure," he pointed to the figures. "I have some leeway regarding the other issues at hand but I have not the authority to lessen these figures and neither do you."

"Are you going to continue to be difficult?" She asked. "Because if you are then we might as well turn right around and go back to Menegroth." Celeborn grunted, which she took to mean that he would be more cooperative.

"You could explain yourself better," he retorted. "'This is no good,' how am I supposed to interpret that?"

"I understand," she said, trying to be more patient, less judgmental, "that such a direct strategy might work well with the Sindar and with the green elves, but you cannot negotiate with the Noldor in such a fashion. I observed a great deal at my father's side, and at Finrod's as well. What I am saying is that we must ask for double these figures, so double the amount of reparations. They will argue you down. If you start at the original number we may only end up with half that but if we start at double we have a reasonable chance of getting what we are hoping for."

"That seems a very silly way of conducting business," Celeborn grumbled, but he scratched out the figures and wrote the new ones in. "The world would be a whole lot simpler if people could only learn to ask for things in a plain and easy to understand manner."

"I quite agree," she said, taking mental note of the irony, "but, unfortunately, that is not the way things are, Celeborn," she sighed, "difficult work lies ahead of us in the morning and we must be suitably prepared. I will not spend all of my goodwill arguing with you. What you should be focused on instead is how you are going to approach Maedhros and Maglor." Celeborn's eyes flashed with anger.

"I am focused," he said and they sat in seething silence for a moment.

"This word is misspelled," she said, stabbing her finger at the parchment, more to break the silence than anything but it didn't really matter. They were not, after all, checking the document for spelling, but she almost wanted to annoy him.

"No it isn't," Celeborn grumbled. "That's the right way. You've just been spelling it wrong for 300 years."

"Oh," she was surprised, felt a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Why did you say nothing to me of it?" She hissed.

"At the time I found it rather endearing," he retorted. "Now I find it rather annoying."

"Funny!" She said, "I was just thinking the same thing about you." Celeborn tossed the pen down. He was furious with himself for still being so reluctant to explain things when he knew he should, when even Nellas had admonished him for it. But he almost feared that if he opened his mouth then he would not find the strength to tell the truth, or at least not all of it.

"Look," he said, "stop acting like an elfling Galadriel. This treaty has nothing to do with whatever may have passed between us. It is about the good of Doriath and the good of your people too. Can we simply agree upon that?" Galadriel nodded, grudgingly. "Good," Celeborn said. "I know you are angry with me. I know that we are both sick, and tired, and exhausted with going over this treaty time and time again. I know that you do not particularly enjoy being around me since we argued but we have to do this. We have to set our differences aside tonight, and tomorrow, if we are to succeed. Do you think you can still work with me?"

Galadriel nodded grudgingly, she knew they could not go into that room to treat with her cousins acting as they were now. She knew she had to put her frustration with him away for one evening, for the sake of everyone else. "Yes," she said, "I can. And I apologize."

Celeborn nodded, "thank you. I apologize as well." He sounded exasperated. "Are there any other corrections that you would suggest?"

"I believe it should stand as it is," she said tersely and they both stared at it then.

"I hope this works," Celeborn said with a sigh, wearily laying his head down on the table.

"Me too," Galadriel replied, laying her head as well as she sighed. They looked at each other for a moment, both sighing and shaking their heads and, after that, they did not remember. They awoke in the early morning with bleary eyes to find that Oropher was pelting them with paper balls.

"Classless peasants," Oropher said with a grin and a laugh, "falling asleep at the table like a couple of drunks." They had certainly woken up then, starting with shock as they realized that they had indeed fallen asleep at the table and Galadriel reached out to peel a paper away from where it was stuck to Celeborn's face. It left some ink behind on his cheek and she laughed softly as he grinned, groaned, and rubbed his face. "You ought to get ready," Oropher said, "the negotiations will be beginning shortly." And, in a flurry of panic they somehow managed to make themselves presentable.

The morning was a tense affair and Galadriel barely heard the heralds announcing them as they were ushered into the negotiation chamber, so preoccupied were her thoughts, for she was beginning to doubt that Celeborn was up to this task, that she was up to it. Maedhros and Celeborn were rather a lot alike in truth, both fiercely pragmatic, both quick to anger, and Galadriel worried that Celeborn might take offense at what Maedhros would say and lose his temper, dooming this treaty. And as for herself, she wondered if she had the power to keep her own pride in check if Celeborn chose to make a decision that she did not hold with.

The council chamber was a long room and quite elegantly done in white marble veined with gray. Rich carpets decorated the floor and the majority of the room was occupied by a long table that was flanked on both sides with chairs. Though it was a beautiful room, it was a rather sparsely ornamented one and thus it spoke to Maedhros's temperament, a man who, though he appreciated the fineness of a few choice things, was first and foremost a practical man.

She looked to where he stood now beside his brother, his deep auburn hair tumbling to his shoulders in rich waves. He had been teased for those curls as a child but when he had grown to be handsome the teasing had stopped. His brow was bound with a golden circlet and he inclined his head politely to the Sindarin party before he and Maglor both sank into respectful bows. The Sindar did the same before they were all seated at the table.

Maedhros and Maglor were still perfectly polite throughout the opening pleasantries yet today they had a very business-like air about them that they had not in the past few days. And, when at last the initial matters had been discussed, and the situation of both Sindar and Noldor clearly laid out, Maedhros spoke. While she was glad that Celeborn had allowed Maedhros to lead the discussion as she had suggested, the words of her cousin startled her.

"I find it rather intrigues me that a Prince of Doriath would seek to lay claim to funds from mines in a land over which he does not rule." Galadriel could feel her heart flopping like a fish in her chest, for she had thought that it would offend Maedhros for Celeborn to lay claim over these lands and now her cousin was arguing that as Celeborn had not laid claim to them, he had no right to expect the reparations. She swallowed and glanced left to look at Celeborn but he showed no sign of being disturbed by her cousin's words. He is so like Thingol, she thought and what worries she had had quickly fled from her heart, for she could see now that, though his temper was quick, Celeborn clearly had his uncle's diplomatic acumen and could, when he so wished, maintain calm under pressure.

"Rule them? No, I do not," Celeborn said, genially, "for they were kindly given over to your rule by my King, without even the requirement of your pledge of fealty. Thus, it is not because I believe that these lands are not part of my kingdom that I do not claim them, but because if I were to claim them, that would necessitate your fealty and Doriath does not wish to usurp your authority." Silence followed his words, silence in which Maedhros seemed to realize, or else he had been given cause to recall, that he had overstepped, that Thingol had already been more generous to him than he deserved, and that Celeborn was a more formidable opponent than he had supposed.

"We have, however," Celeborn continued smoothly, "not been as satisfied as we had hoped with the management of these lands we have given over to you and in recent years much harm has come to our people as a result of this management. Indeed, the effects of clear cutting the forest have been devastating for our people and Doriath has borne the brunt of the financial burden of the reconstruction of our towns and villages in this region. It is to that end that Thingol has requested the specified sum in reparations which, I believe, is not an unreasonable request given what our people have endured."

"That may be true," Maedhros said, "and I will very readily grant that some form of compensations should be made, for it was never my intent to drive your people from their homes, nor to maim them, nor to take from them their means of livelihood. But, we also did suffer from attacks carried out by your people and, no matter how much I may think their anger justified, I cannot hold that such attacks were justified. As you well know, much of our equipment was damaged by these retaliations and much of our livestock was set loose into the wild." Galadriel found herself glad that Celeborn had spoken so plainly for Maedhros seemed to respect that. Perhaps she ought to have given her cousin more credit. Perhaps his interactions with the Sindar of this region had changed him.

"Thingol does very much regret that things came to such a point," Celeborn said. "And he does very much concede that the retaliation of our people is regrettable. Nevertheless, it seems to him very unfair that Doriath must pay for that which we did not destroy."

"Well do I understand his point of view," said Maglor then, his voice calm and musical, "for we also think it unfair that we must pay for that which the Sindar destroyed which was ours."

"And it is very reasonable for you to do so," Celeborn said. "Let us then consider that the amount of reparations to be made will be this amount we have requested less the cost of what ills have been done you by my people."

"Yet still I must say I think the amount is too high," Maedhros replied and Maglor nodded in affirmation. "I think that a cut of 50 percent minus the cost we have endured should be adequate." Galadriel sat with baited breath, hoping that Celeborn would not accept such an offer, that he would remember what she had said about haggling with the Noldor. She wanted to leap into the conversation so badly but she knew that Maedhros would not appreciate such forwardness from a woman in the midst of negotiations and so she reached beneath the table to squeeze Celeborn's knee, hoping that he would be able to interpret her meaning.

"I hope you will not think me terribly rude if I were to say that I believe that not quite fair, considering that the financial burden that has fallen on the Sindar in relation to this matter has been far greater than that which has fallen on the Noldor," Celeborn said. Galadriel nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Shall we compare numbers?" Maedhros asked. "It might allow us to reach a fairer settlement."

"Indeed," Celeborn said, "I believe that would be most wise." And then the other counselors drew forth the ledgers and the comparison was made.

Having seen that the loss the Sindar had endured was indeed greater, Maedhros said, "perhaps it would be more suitable for me to offer 40 percent less our losses."

"Ten less the losses," Celeborn said.

"Thirty," Maedhros replied.

"Twenty then," Celeborn replied but Maedhros would not budge and they at last settled on a reduction of 30 percent minus the losses. It was a startlingly good deal, Galadriel noted, for even though the losses would be subtracted it was still 20 percent more than they had been hoping to get and she was very glad she had advised Celeborn to raise his bid as high as she had.

They moved on then, discussing several small matters and then, at last, they came to the most important matter of them all: reformation of the mining practices at Himring and the tax that Thingol meant to impose on the profits from the mine. It was, however, Maedhros, and not the Sindarin delegation that first broached the topic.

"We wish for assurance that the Sindar will not trouble our mining operations any longer," Maedhros said, moving on the next issue. "We have no cause to want war with your people but the constant attacks, retaliation, and sabotage nearly left us with no other choice. Our deepest desire is to have friendly relations with your kingdom. Indeed, Thingol has done us a great honor by sending his crown prince to negotiate with us for never before have we received a royal party from Doriath or any sort of diplomatic contact. Yet, we seek assurances that this sort of cooperation shall continue and that any attacks carried out by the Sindar will be put to a halt."

"That is our desire as well," Celeborn said. "For we wish from here on out to have only peaceable relations with your people yet this can only be achieved through reformation of the practices you have already put in place. For if the mines continue to be utilized in the way that they have been up until this point, then our people will continue to suffer the adverse affects and they will, in such a case, doubtlessly feel the need to defend their homes and their persons."

"Well of course," Maedhros said, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Then I hope that you will be understanding of the fact that Thingol has seen fit to ban the practice of strip mining in all of Beleriand and would hope that…"

"Ban a practice in lands that you yourself have admitted you have no jurisdiction over," Maedhros said, interrupting the Sindarin prince. There was a glint of anger in his eyes and his nostrils flared as he let out a deep breath, leaning back in his chair with a hand on his chin.

Celeborn bristled, for he had thought that the matter of jurisdiction had been settled. Galadriel knew her cousin well enough to know what that look in his eyes meant and she knew Celeborn well enough to know what that tension in his shoulders meant and so she was quick to place a hand on Celeborn's leg beneath the table, hoping that the affect of her touch would be enough to calm him. And, wondering if it might even be possible for him to see her visions again, as he had on the night the peace began, she concentrated on his favorite places, on the bubbling brooks that ran through the Forest of Region, on the tall beeches of the Forest of Neldoreth, on the thundering rapids of the Sirion, on the sweet perfume of the pink and white magnolias that blossomed outside of Menegroth's gates in late May and, miraculously, she saw the tension drain from him and it seemed as though his mind had cleared of anger and frustration.

"That is a very valid point, my Lord Maedhros," Celeborn said and at those words Maedhros also visibly calmed. "Allow me to present the matter to you in the following fashion," the Sindarin prince continued and the Noldorin one leaned forward, intrigued. "The strip mining practices that you are currently employing are not profitable for either of us or for you. The rocks, the timber, the runoff will eventually pollute this land and make it unsuitable for living, meaning you would eventually have to relocate your people."

"Although the initial cost may higher, the use of drift mining or even slope mining would be far more sustainable in the long term. Indeed, I believe your profit would be greater and the affect on the surrounding lands would be far less severe. What is more, this would help to stop the landslides and floods that have been devastating our Sindarin villages and there would no longer be any cause for discord between our peoples. I speak from experience on this matter, for our people have long had friendly dealings with the dwarves of Belegost, who employed these practices at Mount Dolmed and when they delved the caves of Menegroth." Celeborn said and Galadriel found herself very glad that he had pointed out the benefits of such a strategy to her cousin. Maedhros was a reasonable man and so she thought that this matter would present less of an issue than the matter of the reparations had.

But Maedhros made no reply and, instead, turned and spoke to Maglor in a hushed voice. They conversed for some time and then Maedhros turned back to them. They are just as frightened of war with Doriath as we are of war with them, Galadriel thought. They will not do anything foolish. They are eager to make peace.

"I am afraid this is impossible," Maedhros said.

"Of course," Celeborn said, "we only wish to reach an agreement that is suitable for everyone." Maedhros went silent and exchanged a glance with Maglor.

"I am afraid we cannot consider it," Maedhros said, turning back to the Sindarin delegation. His face was impassive and Galadriel could not discern her cousin's thoughts but she was extraordinarily confused at his outright refusal.

"But surely your mines must be profitable, else there would not have been such haste to clear the trees in such a fashion as was done," Celeborn said and Galadriel felt her heart leap with hope. He must see something, have discerned something that she had not, for unless she was greatly mistaken, he was trying to seek out some answer, something that had given him reason for suspicion.

"Well of course they are," Maedhros said, attempting, it seemed, to remain far calmer than he felt. It was a habit so familiar to Celeborn that he must certainly, Galadriel thought, recognize it in another. At least, she hoped he had.

"And, the adoption of the new mining practices we have suggested will only serve to make them more profitable," Celeborn replied. "I would think that prospect might interest you." He did catch it! He is on to something, Galadriel though.

"Of course," Maedhros said, tight-lipped, but he looked unusually uncomfortable. Celeborn must be striking near to some truth, some reason for Maedhros's protest, Galadriel thought. But, just as she pondered the idea that but one more push from Celeborn could break Maedhros's front, her cousin spoke, saying, "but we have been speaking all morning and, certainly, everyone must be quite tired. Perhaps a recess is in order." The Noldorin prince smiled. "Shall we adjourn for the time being to eat and rest?"

"We are not fatigued if you would like to continue," Galadriel began to say. She truly believed that they could get Maedhros to budge if they debated the topic just a little bit more and she feared that any interruption in the conversation might give Maedhros time to reconsider and undo what work they had done so far.

But Celeborn cut her off, jostling her leg with his under the table and saying, "Thank you, Maedhros. That is most thoughtful of you. I was beginning to feel a bit exhausted. Shall we continue in another two hours?"

"That is perfectly agreeable," Maedhros said with a nod and, exchanging meaningless pleasantries, both parties filtered out of the room and the Sindar were ushered to a private room where they could relax and take refreshment.

"What can he be thinking?" Mablung said as soon as they had been left alone.

"Typical Noldor, thinking only of themselves," Oropher spat, crossing his arms over his chest and pacing back and forth. "They do not understand their impact on our people, on the land. If the onodrim were here they would show them all right." Galadriel gave Oropher a furtive glance but then turned her attention back to Celeborn, taking him aside as Mablung moved to pacify the younger prince.

"I am sorry," she whispered, placing her hand on his arm and looking into his eyes with concern. "I advised you not to claim these lands as your own but I fear that advice has only brought you trouble." She was surprised to find that they were filled with resolution and confidence rather than worry and concern.

"No," Celeborn shook his head, looking into his eyes with conviction, "you were right. It would have inflamed his anger if I had done so. I could see it in his eyes."

"You aren't upset with me then?" She asked, concerned, and he shook his head again.

"You saved me back there," he whispered to her, his gaze intense. "I nearly lost my temper with him. I would have doomed us all had you not had the presence of mind to stop me. The touch of your hand…I…somehow I suddenly felt as though I were walking in the forests of Doriath and my heart grew calm."

"You saw it?" Galadriel exclaimed quietly, her eyes lit with excitement as she grasped his hands. "I sent it to you – a vision. I thought, well, that night that the long peace began you and I saw the same vision, I know it! It was almost as though I could feel your emotions within myself and I thought that perhaps I could do it again, send you some sort of vision to help calm you." She squeezed his hands with joy. "It worked didn't it!"

"Yes," Celeborn said, suddenly appearing anxious, "yes, I suppose that it did." Galadriel fell silent, sensing that for some reason this displeased him. Momentarily he seemed to regain his composure and squared his shoulders. "Anyway," he said, "it was certainly a good call on your part. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Galadriel nodded. "But why did you let him stop things?" She asked "If we had just pushed a little harder, a little more, he might have caved. I worry that this recess will only harden his heart and mind against our proposition."

"He would not have caved," Celeborn said. "There was no compromise to be had there, Galadriel. That isn't the problem."

"Then what was it?" She asked. "I saw the look in your eyes, as if you had discovered something."

"Did you see the way Maedhros looked when I implied that a different method of mining the ore would be more profitable?" Celeborn asked.

"Nervous…" Galadriel began to say.

"And confused," Celeborn interrupted her in his excitement. "He does not know any other method than the one he has been using." Galadriel fell silent. "He thought he could pay us off with only the reparations, that having gotten some money we would go home and not bother him any longer. That was why he did not argue us down any lower on that matter. We got twenty percent more than we asked for and I wondered why. Surely he could have argued harder on that point but I think he hoped that, having gotten our money we would leave things be."

"How did you know?" She asked, surprised.

"I have been wondering for the longest time," Celeborn said, his eyes burning with the excitement of one who has just solved a riddle, "why they persisted even though it meant war with Doriath, why they would take such a risk. And then I also wondered why they would clear cut the forest, an expensive and dangerous task, when there were more cost efficient methods of digging the mines. It struck me all of a sudden," he said, "when he seemed to balk so horribly at the idea of drift mining. We have leverage here, Galadriel," and he seemed suddenly very excited by the idea. "That is why we cannot even get him to consider stopping, that is why he has been doing this for so long, why all of our people's requests have been ignored. He is getting at the ore by blasting the tops off the mountains because he knows no other way of mining it from the earth."

"Oh," Galadriel was surprised that Celeborn had been able to discern something about Maedhros that she had not. Then again, she reminded herself, there is a reason why he is the king's chief counselor. "But how were you able to discern his heart?" She asked.

"Because I know full well what Noldorin pride looks like," he said. Galadriel scowled at him. "Yes, it looks exactly like that," he said.

"Well then how do we proceed?" She asked. It seemed that Celeborn's characteristic decisiveness had returned to him after all these years of indecision and delay.

"I want to send some of our people here, some of the elves who worked with the dwarves of Belegost when we excavated the caves of Menegroth. They will be able to teach Maedhros's people some different methods, appropriate methods that will not devastate the surrounding land. But, of course, I must present it to him as if it is a gift or a trade rather than a favor, correct?"

Galadriel nodded. "He would think it was patronizing, insulting even," she said, "if you sent Sindar here to teach Noldor. But perhaps he would welcome the aid if it were to make his operations more profitable. I am sure that he does not wish for conflict with the Sindar. Maedhros only welcomes conflict when he can see no other way."

"Then what if I say that as the Sindar have done so much to hinder his operations here and, given that the reparations he will pay us are exceedingly generous, and furthermore, as he himself has said that he wishes for some assurance from our people that they will no longer sabotage his operations, I think it only fair that our people share in the burden of the work."

"And how will the Sindar that Thingol sends be paid?" Galadriel asked. "We cannot ask Maedhros to pay their wages."

"With the additional twenty percent of the reparations that we have received," Celeborn replied.

"That is perfect," Galadriel agreed, grasping his hands more tightly, caught up in his excitement. "He will understand exactly what it is you are offering, demonstration of methods, but he will appreciate that you have not laid his ignorance bare. But have you the authority to make such an offer?"

Celeborn shrugged, "it would be somewhat debatable," he told her, "but I have found that sometimes with the king's council it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. And…" he paused, "I want you to be the one to propose it, Galadriel."

"Me?" She asked, surprised.

"I think they will take it better and with less suspicion coming from a Noldo," he said.

"Celeborn," she shook her head, "women have not even the right to inherit amongst the Noldor…"

"I will not follow backwards conventions," Celeborn said firmly, "even if they are the ones that Maedhros follows. You are the right person for the job, Galadriel, and I would have you do it." She swallowed and nodded.

"Then you must assist me," she whispered and he nodded his agreement and grinned. Galadriel had to work hard to suppress the grin that threatened to spread across her face and reminded herself that she was supposed to be frustrated with him for denying that he loved her. It was such a very hard thing to do because she could not help but respect how he had managed to remain focused on their shared goal despite the troubles that had awoken between them, could not help but note how well they worked in tandem, even when their hearts were at odds.

Thunder rippled through her thoughts, booming out against the great hollowness of the dark sky, creased only by the blinding white crackle of lightening that branched like a tree, illuminating the earth for brief moments in stark light. The earth was troubled tonight, rumbling, and all around Galadriel could hear the trees creaking in the breeze of the storm, the rumbling of the earth beneath her feet, almost as though it were speaking to her. In the glimpses of light she could see the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass turned up towards the heavens as though they thirsted for the rain that was about to fall. And fall it did, beginning to rain down at first softly but then growing into a great storm so loud she could hardly hear. The lightning flashed again with a thunderclap so loud she could feel the earth shake and she saw illuminated the fierce wonder on the face of the young man who stood at her side. Celeborn… she whispered in her mind. He almost seemed to crackled with the energy of the lightening itself, his hair as white as its light, as he looked out across a broad plain. It was as if life itself lived in the crack and roll of the thunder.

"I was saying that perhaps we ought to be getting back," Celeborn said, looking at her as though he wondered if she were alright.

"Oh yes, of course," she stammered, trying to collect her thoughts, to shake off the strange vision that had come over her. It hardly seemed a vision, more of a memory almost, except that the memory could not possibly be hers. It had been a while since she had last had one, but then again, it had been a while since she had spent any time around Celeborn and he, it seemed, engendered them. That was not so surprising really, considering that it was always him who she saw in the memories. Perhaps there is more to these visions of Celeborn than I thought, she mused. Perhaps these are visions of a different sort, after all, he looked at me so oddly when I told him only a few minutes ago that I had managed to calm him by means of them.

"Are you alright, Galadriel?" He asked, reaching out, touching her hand briefly and she felt a white-hot jolt run through her as though she had been struck by that selfsame lightening. She nodded in affirmation and yet she had managed to calm herself again by the time that they reached the negotiation chamber and assumed their seats. Celeborn had said that he wanted her to handle this, that she would be more able to present it to them in the proper fashion but she could feel her stomach churning. To do such a thing in Aman, amongst the Noldor at least, would have caused a veritable uproar. Maedhros flashed her a smile as he entered with his brother and she grinned back at him in return.

"I was speaking to the Prince during our recess," she said, wanting to get the first word in, "and I expressed my concern that what he asked of you just prior to our rest taking was not quite fair."

Maedhros's auburn brows shot up but he seemed intrigued rather than put off and he folded his hands, setting them upon the table before him. "How so?" He asked her.

"I found the Prince's request to be unfair on three counts," Galadriel said. "Earlier you stated that the Sindar had hindered and sabotaged your operations here," Galadriel said, feeling her confidence growing. "Though we have deducted the cost of damages done from the amount of reparations that you will pay, it still seemed unfair to me that you would receive no assistance in either money or manpower to repair what damage the Prince's people have done you." Maedhros nodded at her words, seeming pleased.

"Secondly," Galadriel continued, "the amount of reparations that you have agreed to pay to Doriath is exceptionally generous. Indeed, as you saw when we compared our ledgers earlier, the reparations you will pay exceed the financial losses that we have endured. In light of your generosity it hardly seems just to demand that your people do all the work while the Sindar do nothing to assist."

"Lastly," she said, "I have made the prince understand the cost in terms of money and labor of converting your operations from strip mining to drift mining. Given the two points that I have previously mentioned, it seems that it would be far more just if the Sindar were to assist you in doing this seeing as they are the ones making the request that you do so. With Sindarin workers here you could rest assured, as you have stated you desire, that the Sindar will no longer work to undermine your operations here."

"As the Prince mentioned earlier," she continued, "there are some citizens of Doriath who are very experienced miners, having worked with the dwarves of Belegost digging drift mines and having helped in the excavation of Menegroth when she was first built. It seems to me that if Thingol were to send these people here to assist you in the transition then it would decrease the amount of manpower and money that you yourselves would need to invest, which I believe is only fair, given how generous you have been in your offer of reparations."

Celeborn was drumming his fingertips upon the table as if he were agitated and Galadriel nearly smirked at the dissatisfaction that he was feigning, putting on a little show for Maedhros and Maglor to make them think that he had only grudgingly come to agree with her, that the sons of Feanor were triumphing over Doriath on this point.

"This sounds to me," Maedhros said, a smile on his face, turning towards Celeborn, "a very promising idea and, as you have said, a way of ensuring that no further conflict erupts between our peoples. Moreover, I particularly appreciate the idea that the Sindar will help us in putting right what they have broken." He laughed and shook his auburn head. "I must admit," he said, "at first I wondered at Thingol that he would make Galadriel his counselor, but now I find I am rather glad that he has someone who can understand the Noldorin mind and heart."

"I have always found Galadriel to be more than capable in whatever she turns her mind to," Celeborn said a bit stiffly, having taken some offense at the implications of the son of Feanor's comment.

"But," Maedhros said, addressing Celeborn now, "how shall these workers be paid? For, surely you must agree that it is not fair that I pay their wages. They are, after all, to assist me in a task that Thingol has put upon me, not something I would do of my own will if given a choice."

"The Lady Galadriel did caution me of that as well," Celeborn said, "and I believe it would be best for them to be paid out of the reparations that you will provide to us. Thus, no extra funds will be needed on your part." Maedhros nodded and turned to speak to Maglor in whispers before he turned back to Celeborn.

"In that case," he said, "I believe that we are satisfied."

"Then we also are satisfied with the deal that has been agreed upon," Celeborn replied with a polite smile. The two princes sat back as the scribes rushed forward to draw up the new treaty, their quills quickly scratching across the parchment.

"I must admit that I was worried," Maedhros said.

"And why is that?" Celeborn asked.

"I have often found myself unsettled by men who take too much advice from women," Maedhros said. "Usually they are quite weak. After all, Finarfin turned back from our quest at the behest of his wife, forsaking his kinsmen, and my father himself nearly abandoned his finest work, turning the Silmarils over to the Valar at the urging to my mother, but it was only at the last moment that he chose not to do so and, regaining his strength of heart, cleansed his mind of her words and vowed to retake what was rightfully his. For a moment I feared that you might be a man such as Galadriel's father, easily ruled by the words of women, and yet I have found you to be a worthy adversary."

Galadriel had to stomp on Celeborn's foot with as much force as she could muster to prevent him from springing from his chair and across the table to wrap his hands around her cousin's neck. She knew that Maedhros had meant it as a compliment, that he had not meant to offend, that this was not such a strange thought to men of the Noldor, but to Sindarin ears, to one who had been raised by Melian and alongside Luthien, she knew it sounded a grave insult.

"I am honored by your words," Celeborn said, seeming to have understood why she had just abused his foot so terribly, and the peace was maintained and the treaty signed and sealed before they adjourned to the festivities that awaited them.

*****

"You love him," Galadriel was startled by the quiet yet familiar voice and turned to her left to see Maedhros standing there. "That silver hair…trust you to find the most Sindarin looking Sinda you could find and then fall in love with him simply to be obstinate."

"I take it you do not approve?" She asked, taking a nervous swallow of her wine. "I know that Curufin and Celegorm certainly do not so I must assume that Caranthir is of the same mind."

"And me too by association?" Maedhros asked, turning an appraising eye upon his cousin. "I may not hold with all of your views and practices but I am not my brothers, Artanis."

"Galadriel," she reminded him. "And you are all the sons of Feanor."

"Do not associate me with my younger brothers," he murmured, his eyes dark, brooding. "It is all I can do to control them these days. You must believe me when I say that your Celeborn might very well have met his end at Himlad had I not instilled in Curufin a strong fear of my wrath. Yet, my grip on them is slipping I fear. You ought to tell Finrod to take caution, Galadriel, for they dwell more closely to Nargothrond than to Himring and their thoughts of late grow dark." He took a long drink from the glass of wine he held suspended between thumb and index finger.

Maedhros shook his head as if to clear it of unpleasant thoughts. "Feanor…" he said nothing else but the silence seemed sufficient to communicate what he wished. "Tell me, Galadriel, this Thingol that you serve – would he ever thrust such an oath upon his children."

"Never," Galadriel said, shaking her head, somewhat confused, fearing that they might now be treading in dangerous territory. For a moment she had thought that she had seen a glimpse of Curufin, of Celegorm in his eyes and she reached out to touch her cousin's arm, for she sensed the hurt within him and wanted to bring him whatever small comfort she could. It seemed to quiet Maedhros and the strange, fey glint in his eyes faltered and then faded until he seemed nearly cheerful again.

"Then you are fortunate," Maedhros said. "Forgive me," he said with a small laugh and a shake of his head, "I did not mean to say any of that. I hope I have not upset you."

"Not at all," Galadriel assured him. They looked out over the celebration to see Celeborn, Dairon, and Maglor laughing together and examining some text that Dairon held.

"Nor," Maedhros continued, "did I intent to convey any disapproval over the object of your heart." His eyes lingered on Celeborn. "An unorthodox match, yes, and there are, certainly, many legitimate objections that could be raised, that I might raise, were you my sister. Such a marriage might indeed cause more grief than goodwill between Sindar and Noldor and there is, of course, the matter that he, unlike you, has a kingdom to consider. But what is done is done and cannot be changed I suppose."

"I am afraid that I do not take your meaning," Galadriel said, perplexed, sipping her wine.

"You've no need to play coy with me," Maedhros said. "Perhaps Thingol disapproves but I am your cousin and have known you since you were a babe. Surely you did not think that I would be unable to see the evidence of the bond in your eyes. It is in his eyes as well," his gaze lingered on Celeborn.

"Maedhros I am unbound," Galadriel replied, perplexed, and yet something about what he had said seemed to ring with the essence of truth, a truth that tugged like a thread upon the latent fears that were buried in her heart. "I have never known a man, nor have I made any vows." Maedhros turned to her, his eyes searching her face.

"Rushing into a vow lightly, hastily, with a heart filled with passion and devoid of wisdom can only lead to regrets," his voice was solemn. "Take it from someone who knows."

They were silent for a while in which Maedhros and Galadriel both seemed to be pondering what he had said. "Still," he said as if to make amends for any discomfort he had caused her, "I must say that the two of you ruling a kingdom side by side would be a most formidable thing indeed."

"Maedhros!" Maglor was approaching with Dairon in tow, interrupting the uncomfortable conversation. "Have a look at these songs that Dairon has kindly composed for me. Are they not splendid?" With that he thrust a songbook into his older brother's hands. Galadriel grinned as much at Maglor's excitement as she did at Maedhros's complete lack of musical acumen. Her cousin hardly seemed to know whether or not he was holding the songbook right side up.

"Now I may be able to sing, but you know full well I can hardly read this stuff," he said to Maglor. "You sing them for me so that I might be able to appreciate their beauty as it is meant to be appreciated."

"With pleasure!" Maglor replied before he and Dairon began to sing. But Galadriel had fled that place, returning to the rooms that had been appointed them. And, alone there, she sat before the mirror for many long hours, trying to discern if there was, as her cousin had said, some evidence of some bond in her eyes. But she could see nothing different about her gaze, or else she was not certain what exactly she was looking for. She clutched her trembling hands in her lap.

"It is all nonsense," she said out loud, as if this might help convince her that there was truth in what she was saying, "it is all a joke like they used to play on me when I was a child. And, besides, what does Maedhros know of bonds anyway? They are all probably having a good laugh at my expense this very moment." And yet the thought kept her awake that night, tossing and turning until at last the sun had risen and they departed for Menegroth.

They were welcomed in Menegroth like victors, with rose petals strewn upon the ground and feasts and ever so many parties. And, Celeborn knew that he had achieved his objective, an objective he had now been pursuing for centuries; not just that he had achieved it, that he had surpassed Thingol's expectations. In the months that followed he was cognizant of the fact that he ought to be overjoyed. He was living the best sort of life that Doriath could offer, had the favor of the King, never had to buy his own beer any longer, and was the recipient of many covert admiring glances from beautiful smiling ladies but he gave them not even a second thought, for when he finished with his work each day he returned to his chambers and there, in silence and solitude, the only smile that came to mind was Galadriel's.

She had been so jubilant when they completed the treaty, so very happy and it had gladdened his heart to see her so and yet he had also been able to see the sadness, sadness that he had caused, sadness born of his refusal of her love. It was the same pain that he had caused her so long ago, that terrible pain of truth deferred, of little lies building, bubbling like pus in a blister about to burst, the heartache of the terrible knowing that she loved him but that she loved the lie more and that she had chosen it every minute of every hour of every day, even when he had begged her, pleaded with her to tell it. Well did he remember how his heart had hardened against her, the cold growing so slowly like frost on a flower that had blossomed too soon until the delicate little petals were encased within coffins of ice that slowly choked away what life there had been until only a hollow husk of what had once been was left behind.

Nellas was right; he knew it. He must tell her, he knew that he must; she deserved to know. He ought to have told her earlier, before things had become so much more complicated, before her heart was at stake, before his was. But what was done was done, and, though he did not like it, he knew what he must do, just as he knew why it frightened him so horribly: it might very well cost him her love.

Her love. Galadriel whose heart was full of kindness even for those who had done her wrong, who dwelled not long on scorn and turned her thoughts instead to hope, who could endure anything and rise again, stronger than ever before. He had told Thingol that he did not wish to be a king and he did not, not unless Galadriel stood beside him as his queen. The way in which they had worked in tandem to negotiate this treaty had awakened in him a fire that was quickly burning away what doubts and fears he had had. That feeling of working in perfect harmony with another, with her – he wanted to feel that again and again, a thousand more times. So great had been his joy in their victory upon their return to Menegroth that he had wanted most ardently to consummate what lay between them just as they had consummated the treaty and he had lain awake during the days when he ought to be sleeping with wild thoughts of running to her, confessing his love for her, wedding her in that very instant.

For it seemed that he saw so clearly now what had troubled his heart and staid his hand where he would otherwise never have hesitated. When she had lain there in the houses of healing like one dead he had worried that it was Melkor who would wrap his thorny weeds about the sprout of her life and choke it out, ruin her, twist her, take what good and promise there was in her and pervert it. But now he saw that it was he himself who was taking what love she bore him in her heart and turning it to coldness, to anger, to revulsion with his delay, with the truth that he kept hidden, just as she had once done to him. Melkor's greatest weapon is fear, he had thought it as he stood over her still and dying form and yet he had been so utterly and foolishly incapable of seeing that selfsame fear in himself. Or perhaps he had merely wished not to see it.

How well did he still recall the night that he had first looked upon her with wonder and she had gazed at him in awe, the both of them caught in the fantasia of a moment in which her image had been seared into his memory, painted like a fresco onto his eyelids so that even when his eyes were tight closed he saw her there emblazoned in all that vibrant color, weaving her way amongst the stars, more radiant than the dawn itself. Her laugh – the sound of a creek in spring surrounded by the delicate pink and white of dogwood blossoms where the pungent perfume of osage fruit hung like a heavy musk in the air. Her smile was spun from sunlight, her eyes lit with an ethereal light, the exquisite fire of her soul, the kind gentleness of her heart, the compassion of the touch of her hand, her kiss, a kiss he could hardly remember now, a kiss that had driven the weariness, the sadness from his heart and ushered in joy and vitality.

It was the middle of the day and the entire palace was asleep but Celeborn sat up in bed, his heart pounding like a great war drum and his hands did not shake, nor did his mind waver in his conviction as, without care for who might see or what they might think, he ran through the corridors of his palace his footsteps echoing in the halls as the remembrance of her love echoed in his heart, the only thought in his mind that he must find her, that he would tell her everything.

Galadriel strode back to her chambers wearily, exhausted from the day's work and from the near constant parties that had followed in the months since they had returned from Himring. Despite all of the festivities she simply felt hollow, for Maedhros's words were working upon her heart, compounded by the concerns and frustrations she had already been feeling, and, though she could not fathom how it might have happened or when, she puzzled over whether what he had said about the bond was true and she spent many a fruitless hour searching her eyes for evidence of such a thing.

It was driving her near mad, for if, somehow, someway, there was some bond that lay between them then the curse that lay over her might have had an affect on Celeborn as well. During the days as she tossed and turned in her bed, unable to find sleep, she had wondered if that was what was causing his delay, if he too worried that by sharing a love he would also come to share in her doom. And though the thought brought her pain, she could not find it in her heart to blame him for having such thoughts for she would never wish that fate upon him. And, indeed, if it ever came to him having to choose between Doriath's happiness and her happiness then she most ardently hoped that he would choose Doriath over her, for that was where his heart truly lay and she wished only that his heart be glad.

But her life seemed so very empty without him, nearly devoid of humor and laughter, satisfying, certainly, for everything she had ever hoped for was coming true and, of course, that made her very happy, but it felt as though something was missing and she knew it was the void that he had left in her heart, a place he had once occupied. She knew why. He had said it himself that day they had spent together in the library. All of this had been meant to be their victory: the long peace, the treaty at Himring, the renewal of the alliance with Nargothrond, the newfound cooperation and harmony amongst their peoples. Galadriel had always thought of it that way, even though she did so unconsciously, that when this was all done she and Celeborn would sit and laugh about it together, sit and talk about it, enjoy the fruits of their labor. It was silly, she knew, but she had even imagined it, them lying in the fresh grass outside the gates of Menegroth, eating those cakes he liked so much and wondering why they had ever worried over anything at all. That dream of a victorious duet had become a song of solitude.

Yes, she could have gone to Luthien or Melian and they would have been happy to celebrate with her, but she wanted to go to Celeborn. She had planned this all with him, after all, she wanted to enjoy it with him as well. Indeed, there were so many things nowadays that, upon hearing, she would immediately think, I must tell Celeborn! How he would laugh! And then the thought that followed would always remind her that she could not.

For despite all her willingness, for all her wanting to touch him, to kiss him, to give him her love, Maedhros's words had reawoken that fear that had still been there deep down, that fear that it would only end in ruin all over again, that worry that he would fall out of love with her once more. What guarantee had she that this time it was real? And yet, at the mere thought of that her heart had begun to pound in her chest like a hammer on an anvil and so she pushed those thoughts away.

Try though she might she could not completely erase him from her mind. The treaty at Himring had only served to reinforce how very much she cared for him, how very deeply she loved him. The years without him were boring, dull, sad. And there was a creeping bitterness, a resentment, an anger growing in her that they would never have the joy she thought they so richly deserved. She sighed, feeling incredibly despondent. Doriath had entered into a golden age once more and she felt she was wasting it.

She ought to be celebrating, out drinking with her friends, participating in sporting events, doing something useful, not moping about. It did not help things that all around Menegroth every elf maid seemed to be popping out babies left and right now that they were in a time of peace. Not that Galadriel particularly liked babies, but there was something about them that made her think of renewal, of new opportunities at a time when she felt she was merely running in place and then again there was some slight envy eating away at her as she watched happy couples with their happy elflings. I will recover from this, she thought with determination. I don't need him. I'll be well enough in a while. Time does heal everything, or so they say. No, she didn't need him, but she wanted him; she had chosen him. Was she doing the right thing, or was she simply running away again? She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as she pushed her laundry ticket across the counter.

A hand closed over it with the speed and ferocity of a mousetrap and she looked up into the wickedly grinning face of Paniel and sighed. "Of course," she said, "it would be you."

"It's your lucky day Princess. I washed your clothes myself," Paniel said, looking very much like a cat that had just eaten a canary as she bustled away with the laundry ticket and returned with Galadriel's clothes. Galadriel groaned. Of course, Paniel had dyed one of her chemises a lurid shade of pink.

"Putting the reds in with my whites again I see," Galadriel said.

"Somebody has to remind you where you came from," Paniel said. "Can't have you getting all high and mighty and thinking you're better than the rest of us. Then again…if someone were to influence the king to raise our wages perhaps you might find that your whites stay whiter."

"Are you seriously attempting to bribe me?" Galadriel asked, nonplussed. She found she could not quite be mad at Paniel. Indeed, there was something almost amusing about her scheming and Galadriel wondered if this singling her out for torment had almost become some strange mark of affection.

"Oh no," Paniel shook her head, "I'm threatening you."

"You know, Paniel," Galadriel said, gathering up her clean clothes, "I do believe you missed your calling in life. You are wasted down here in the laundries. They ought to put a knife in your hand and send you to the borders. Beleriand would be cleared of orcs in a week."

"For your information," Paniel said as if she were offended by that, "I will have you know that I am rather a good laundress. I can get out any stain, stains that these peasants," she gestured at the younger laundresses who seemed to scurry about in fright of her, "could never manage to get out." Suddenly it was like a key fitting into a lock and Galadriel's mouth dropped open.

"It was you," she said adamantly. "It was you who cleaned my dancing costume that night that Saeros ruined it!"

"Nonsense," Paniel said. "I don't know what you're going on about." She turned away, marching back into the laundries, shouting threats at her subordinates but Galadriel had seen the small grin before she had turned and she knew, in her heart of hearts, that it had certainly been Paniel that had helped her that night.

"Paniel! Thank you!" She cried.

"Nobody wants your stupid apologies, Galadriel!" She heard Paniel call back, though she could no longer see her.

But her encounter with Paniel had caused her to think of Bainwen, for she was passing now near the servants' quarters on her way to her own rooms. It had been years now since she had seen her friend and the longer that trend persisted the more squeamish she grew about seeking her out. For Bainwen must be a good deal angrier with her than she had anticipated for such distance to have grown in their relationship. Goodness, Galadriel mused, it seems I can't have even one glad thought this day! And how very strange, for today was a happy day indeed. She had just secured renewal of diplomatic relations with Nargothrond, just renewed the alliance between Finrod and Thingol, just written to her brother inviting him to come visit Menegroth, informing him that Thingol wished to take council with him.

She made yet another effort to calm herself, to eliminate her bad mood, stopping in the daylit corridors, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Already the warm rays of the sun beat down on her. She hated going to sleep this late in the day for it meant she would be already exhausted when she awoke but it seemed that she was incapable of sleep this day. Her thoughts were running wild. The sound of retching greeted her ears and Galadriel's eyes snapped open.

Certainly, her ears must be deceiving her, she thought as she glanced about. She heard nothing else and so she began her trek to her lonely rooms and her cold bed once more, sighing yet again. She stopped. There it was again. She was sure of it. There was, indeed, someone retching.

"Hello?" She called quietly. She had thought this place deserted. It was a rather odd place to be anyway, halfway between the servants' quarters and the houses of healing. It was daylight as well. She could not fathom who else would still be awake, and having a tough time of it too from the sound of things.

"Hello?" She called again, looking around the corner, and she heard the retching noise again. "Is someone there?" She walked a short ways down the hall and then she saw it, or her rather, a dark haired elf woman in a nurse's uniform hidden in an alcove, vomiting into the fountain there, her white-knuckled, trembling hands gripping the rim of it. Galadriel grimaced, hoping that this particular fountain was not in any way connected to one that supplied her with water.

"Are you…is something the matter?" She approached the girl, who looked up with frightened eyes filled with tears. "Inwen!" She gasped upon recognizing the woman. They had never been particularly close, but Galadriel certainly had not forgotten her. The brunette merely took a deep shuddering breath and wiped her sleeve across her teary eyes.

"Oh Galadriel, she's going to kill me," the girl sobbed.

"Who?" Galadriel asked, tentatively touching the girl's shoulder. "Do you mean Madame Camaeneth, the chief healer? Have you made some mistake? Is she that frightful? Is it Madame Lhaineth? I know she can be strict but she isn't so horribly bad. Surely, if you explain to her whatever is the matter…"

Inwen nodded, wiping her eyes again. "I…oh, he'll hate me…" she stammered.

"He? Who? Inwen, what ever is the matter? You're not making any sense." Galadriel said but the girl began to vomit once more and the Noldo quickly gathered her hair, holding it for her and rubbing her back until the girl stopped vomiting and looked up at her with teary eyes.

"Have you nicked some of the medicine?" Galadriel asked. "Is that why you're ill?"

"No!" Inwen exclaimed, offended, her dark eyes flashing with anger. "I would never!"

"I'm sorry," Galadriel said. "It was wrong of me to assume." But Inwen seemed to collapse, as if the burden she bore had suddenly become too heavy, and Galadriel moved forward to catch her, helping her sit upon the ground.

"You're good at keeping secrets aren't you? That's what they all say anyway: you kept a secret from the King himself for two decades." She did not wait for Galadriel's reply. "Oh Galadriel, you know Prince Celeborn. Maybe you can help me. You must! Please! I'll be ruined! I…I'm with child." Inwen said and silence hung between them for the span of a few moments as Galadriel gaped, open-mouthed, at the nurse. And now she understood Maedhros's words, for there was some light in Inwen's eyes that had not been there before. She had never been given cause to take note of such a thing before, but now it occupied her thoughts with a great intensity. She struggled to calm the trembling of her hands.

"Is this not good news?" Galadriel asked at last, somewhat perplexed.

"No," the girl said, "no not at all. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"What do you mean?" Galadriel asked and the girl's face crumpled as though she were about to begin crying in earnest.

"He hates children," the girl stammered.

"Your husband?" Galadriel sought clarification, rubbing the sobbing girl's back. She had had no idea that Inwen was married and she was still very confused, for if Inwen was married then she could not fathom why she still slept in the servants' dormitory. None of the other married servants did.

"Y…yes," the girl stammered.

"Did he tell you?" Galadriel asked.

"No, but his brother did," the girl looked entirely distraught at the thought.

"But surely…it would not be possible to create an elfling if the both of you had not been willing."

"I do not know," the girl replied, shaking her head violently as she wrapped her arms around her knees. And then she looked at Galadriel hopefully saying, "do you know anything about creating an elfling?"

"Beyond the physical mechanics of it I am afraid not," Galadriel said. "I suppose that I always thought I would ask another woman when the time came, one with children of her own."

"I don't understand how…I only thought about it for the briefest of moments, that I wanted a child, that I desired that more than anything…I thought it would be more difficult to do, to create an elfling. We aren't even supposed to be married," Inwen said. "It was an accident. We…we weren't even officially courting, we couldn't, it would never have been allowed. And then…then one day…oh things just went too far and we were caught up in the moment and…and we, we bound ourselves to one another on a whim. It was foolish and stupid. And nobody knows. If they found out…oh they'd have our heads! I daren't look anyone in the eyes. If I did they would know, they would know I have married and done so without the King's consent! And, oh, Galadriel you are the only one who can help me! How fortunate that you came upon me, truly, it must be the work of Illuvatar." Things were slowly starting to fall into place but Galadriel still could not figure out exactly what had happened, nevertheless, she comforted the distraught girl, rubbing her back soothingly and wiping away her tears.

"Do not worry," Galadriel assured her. She need not ask how they had managed to accidentally bind themselves in the heat of the moment. She and Celeborn had come dangerously close on several occasions once upon a time. "If there is anyone who excels at keeping secrets it is I." That seemed to almost bring a smile to the girl's face.

"Inwen, do you love your husband?" Galadriel asked.

"Yes," Inwen replied.

"And does he love you?"

"Yes."

"Well then," Galadriel said. "That's all you need to be married, so long as you have spoken the words of Illuvatar. I mean, certainly it might be considered a little rude in more polite circles to marry without announcing your betrothal but so many of the Sindar on the borders do so and the Green Elves and Avari almost always marry in such a fashion. Indeed, there are even some Noldor who have done so, or so I have heard."

"We did speak the words of Illuvatar and make the vows before we bound ourselves," Inwen told her.

"Then you don't need the king's permission at all. That's only for Luthien and the princes and such, not for people like us. There must be some way to sort this all out."

"But I do need it, the King's permission I mean," Inwen said, looking up at Galadriel once more. "Prince Galathil is the father of my child. He is my husband."

Galadriel went slack-jawed at that and it took a few minutes for her to recoup, meanwhile, Inwen sniffled quietly. "I…well…" Galadriel stammered at last. Everything had clicked into place. It was not the right thing to say, apparently, and Inwen burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

"Thingol will exile me!" She cried. "And he will exile Galathil and my reputation shall be ruined, I will lose my position in the houses of healing! They were training me to be a surgeon, Galadriel, and now I shall lose it all! And Galathil, he will be furious with me. He despises children! I have brought ruin upon him! And what of my baby? Exile is no life for a child!"

"Inwen, Inwen!" Galadriel took the girl's face in her hands, looking into her eyes until she calmed down a bit. "Look here, there's no need to get so upset. But we must make things right, even if it is very frightening and trying to do so. An elfling needs energy from both father and mother to grow, to flourish, surely you know that from your work. It is not good for her that you and Galathil are living separately. We must remedy this situation."

"You know my child is a girl?" Inwen asked, confused. "Are you certain?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so," Galadriel stammered, confused herself as to why she had assumed that. "It was just a slip of the tongue I think." She took Inwen's hands, squeezing them. "Inwen, as you said yourself, Celeborn is my friend and I can help you, I will help you. I will speak to him on your behalf. I can explain the circumstances to him and perhaps he can give me a better idea of how you ought to approach Galathil about the matter." Inwen was silent for a while.

"Oh, but I don't want him to be angry with Galathil," Inwen murmured.

"Could things get any worse?" Galadriel sighed.

"You're really going to help me?" Inwen said, as if she could hardly believe it and Galadriel nodded. That seemed to calm the nurse down considerably and Galadriel helped her up.

"Is the nausea so bad?" Galadriel asked her and the dark-haired elf nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I have attended many pregnancies lately. Some are worse than others. I had hoped for an easy pregnancy myself but it seems I shall not be so lucky."

"It's these long years of peace," Galadriel said. "Everyone is happy and hopeful and it seems that causes people to want to make elflings." Inwen laughed and wiped away her tears.

"Let me walk you to the dormitory," Galadriel said, offering her arm to Inwen. The girl brightened a little. "And if you have any trouble at all you can come to me." Inwen nodded. They stood and, as they did so, Galadriel glanced at her own reflection in the still waters of the fountain and nearly gasped aloud in shock. It was there, in her eyes, the same light that was in Inwen's. She could see it now.

"Do you want any children, Galadriel?" Inwen asked as they walked and Galadriel struggled to force down the confused thoughts that were threatening to take over her mind.

"I suppose, one day," Galadriel said. "But I'm in no rush and, besides, I'll have to find someone to father them first."

"Celeborn will be the father." Inwen said, "I am sure of it. I still remember that night of the party – the way he looked at you with so much love. That is the way Galathil looks at me."

"Oh I don't know," Galadriel chuckled. "He's rather stubborn about it."

"Men never know what's best for them," Inwen said. "You have to tell them, and very directly."

"That is true," Galadriel laughed and then, her curiosity getting the better of her said, "by the way…the night of that party…were you and Galathil courting then?"

"Yes," Inwen said with a shy nod and Galadriel laughed.

"You know, I was wondering that night why he chose a nurse," she said and Inwen laughed.

"Oh, I was so afraid everyone would figure it out that night!" The dark-haired girl exclaimed. "I was very angry at him! But he was so content with himself and that little joke he pulled on Celeborn, telling him that you were alone and wished to confess your love to him."

"That's what he told him?" Galadriel cried. "Oh I could have killed him for that!"

"Please don't!" Inwen said with a laugh and then she shook her head as though she could not believe her own thoughts. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Whatever for?" Galadriel asked, turning to the dark-haired nurse as they walked leisurely through the corridors on their way back to the servants' chambers.

"Well, I feel I must apologize for my, for my thoughts. I know it sounds a silly thing to say. But, when you first came here Paniel told us all that you were horrid and cruel and so a great many of us feared you even more than we feared her, which is saying quite a lot. And yet I find you to be so kind. That green elf, Bainwen, she was so lonely before you became her friend and now you are offering to help me with my problem and – just the little things, little kindnesses. And then," she grinned, "the way you stood up to Paniel really put the fire in all of us. Before you came she was such a bully to all of us, but I think she is afraid of you now because she doesn't bother any of us anymore, not since you fought her that one day. Even now that you're gone she leaves us alone for the most part."

"I had no idea," Galadriel said with a laugh. But in her heart she was pondering many things, questions for which she needed answers and so, as soon as she had deposited Inwen at the servants' quarters and bid everyone there hello, she turned and began her march towards Celeborn's quarters.

As it turned out, she never made it all the way there for, in her newfound haste to find Celeborn, she rounded a corner rather more quickly than usual, colliding with precisely the elf she had been looking for, and, in their ungraceful efforts to keep from loosing their feet, Galadriel noticed he was so extraordinarily nervous that he appeared to be in danger of losing his dinner and she feared that she would have to deal with yet another vomiting Sinda. Grasping each other's arms, they at last managed to steady themselves.

"Galadriel!" Celeborn said, his voice, quick, panicked almost. He reached out, taking her by the shoulders in a firm grip, his eyes burning with resolution. "I have been looking for you!"

"What?" Galadriel asked, thoroughly confused. "Why?"

"There is something I must tell you, something very important," he said adamantly. "I must tell you now, immediately, before I lose the courage."

She stared at him blankly, "of…of course," she said, surprised, "but there is something of dire importance that I must tell you as well and I had better tell you it this very instant for it concerns most closely the well-being of your family."

"Let us go to my chambers and speak there," he said and they headed off at a near sprint and arrived at their destination quickly, whereupon Celeborn shut the door behind them. They had hardly sat down before he blurted out, "I have bound you to me!"

And, at the same time Galadriel had cried, "Galathil is married and his wife is with child!"

"What?" They both cried in unison, staring at one another in shock. Whatever they had been expecting the other to say it was certainly not what they had said.

"No you first," Celeborn urged her.

"No, you," she replied but she had hardly waited a moment before she blurted out once more, "your brother has married in secret and his wife is with child."

Celeborn repeated the words over and over in his mind, not quite understanding them though the meaning was perfectly clear. It was as if some fog hung over his head. "My…my brother?" He finally managed to splutter and Galadriel nodded. He sat for a moment longer. "My brother, Galathil is married and his wife is pregnant?" He asked. Galadriel nodded again. All of a sudden it was as though the fog lifted and Celeborn could feel his own eyebrows shooting up. He could hardly believe it. Galathil was a prankster but, of the two of them, he had always been less prone to rash actions and words than Celeborn.

"How? To whom? When?" The words tumbled out. The shock of the whole thing had overwhelmed his thoughts. "Why has he said nothing to me?" Celeborn's anxiety of a moment earlier was slowly being replaced with anger like sand filling an hourglass.

"No one knows," Galadriel said, "save you and I. It seems they have been seeing each other for a while in secret, since around the time that I returned. She is a servant, not noble born, a friend of mine, and they did not get Thingol's permission before they wed. It seems it was rather an accident, that they got carried away and went a bit further than they intended."

"A bit further?" Celeborn spluttered incredulously. Galadriel could see that vein throbbing in his temple that signaled his anger. And Celeborn had a million thoughts running through his mind. He could not help but be furious with his brother for having done such a thing, for having married without the King's consent, for having put this burden upon some pitiable girl, for having not confided in him.

"Now Celeborn, do not grow wroth with him," Galadriel chided. "Consider how very, very many times you and I nearly took things a bit too far."

"That was different!" Celeborn cried.

"It was not," Galadriel said firmly. "And besides, what good will anger do?"

"How did you…why do you know?" Celeborn asked, still perplexed.

"The poor girl has been having terrible stomach pains and nausea because of the pregnancy," Galadriel said. "I happened upon her and she told me what had happened out of hope that you could help. I used to work with her, in a way, though we practiced different trades."

"Why should they need my help?" Celeborn fumed. "They have gotten themselves into this mess. They ought to go to Thingol themselves and take care of this business."

"Celeborn," Galadriel glared at him, "have some compassion." They sat in silence for a moment while he calmed his heart and then she said, "Galathil does not yet know. She is terrified to say anything about the child to him because he despises children."

"Despises children?" Celeborn looked extraordinarily confused. "He loves them. Why would she think he despises them?"

"Oh?" Now it was Galadriel's turn to look surprised. "She said that you told her he hates them. That is why she has not told him, why she has been worrying herself sick…"

"Oh…." The look of comprehension was dawning now on Celeborn's face. "Oh…the nurse…the one from the halls of healing…what was her name?"

"Celeborn, why would you say such a thing if it was untrue?" Galadriel asked, concerned.

"It was…it was a…a tricky situation. I was not thinking clearly," he stammered, for the pieces were all coming together now. He turned to her then, looking worried. "It seems things have come full circle," he said, meeting her gaze, finding confusion in the azure depths of her eyes, "for that is exactly what I had been meaning to tell you only a few minutes earlier."

He reached out to hold her hands within his own. There was something strange in his eyes, something different…only she knew what it was now, that strange glow, and she wondered how she had not seen it before. She swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to hear his words, and he took a deep breath before he found the courage to say what he must.

"When you were sick, poisoned…" he said, "they thought that… that there was a very good chance you would pass to Mandos's halls or, that if they did manage to heal you it would only be in part, and for weeks you lay as if you were dead, never waking, the poison slowly wasting your body away. They thought you were too far gone to save…even Thingol thought so."

"Yes," she said, "So I have been told. But what does that have to do with anything? Their medicine worked and I got better. These are, after all, the best healers Middle Earth has to offer." And yet, even as she said those words she could see the profound depth of sorrow in his eyes that the memories had caused.

"No," Celeborn said. "It was I who healed you." And the silence that followed his words was so deep that Galadriel was certain she would have been able to hear a hairpin drop on the other side of Menegroth. Now it was her turn to be perplexed and Celeborn felt some odd sensation, as if his heart were turning over and over, tumbling down a hill. Her questions were clearly written on her face. "At first I did not go to heal you…I…I don't really know why I went. It is a horrible thing to say but I…wanted to see you completely destroyed. I still bore you so much anger and I…I wanted to see you powerless so that I would know that you held no power over me any longer." Galadriel shrank back from him at those words, removing her hands from his grasp as if his touch had suddenly become loathsome to her.

"And have you harbored such thoughts for me all this time while you pretended to be my friend?" She asked him, looking at him with revulsion now. "Do you wish still for my destruction?" She knew it was not true but, suddenly, she found herself frightened of him, worrying over what he might have done to her that she did not know about, disturbed by the knowledge that Maedhros had been more trustworthy than Celeborn in this instance.

"Nay!" He cried. "It is not so. I feel differently now and have so felt for a very long while. Seeing you there, like that…I could not bear it, could not tolerate seeing all of your strength sucked away and I grew repentant, I could not bear to let Morgoth have you, to let him ruin you, break you the way I had already seen so many broken. And so…I healed you." The anger in her face had lessened slightly and he took a deep breath as he continued. "It was crude magic, archaic magic, Sindarin magic, rudimentary but strong. I knew it would work, but it is forbidden, considered criminal by most."

"What did you do?" She asked, and her voice sounded far more frightened than angry now.

"Blood magic," he said, hardly daring to meet her eyes from the shame of admitting it, but somehow he found the strength within himself to do so. "I…I am no healer; I have not the art, nor the patience, nor the delicacy. I am a warrior, a taker of life, and so the only thing I could do was to take part of my own life, to put it into you. It is the only type of healing I know, but it binds the healer to the one they have healed. There are a few amongst the march wardens who have saved the lives of other wardens in such a fashion, though in those cases they were able to consent to the bond." He fell silent. "What I did…" he did not finish his sentence. They both knew the implications. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"All those years ago you asked me if I was frightened of you, if I worried that you might bewitch me with some dark elven…spell," her voice was as bitter and hard as her words, "Perhaps I should have been! You bound me to you without my consent! How can I…how can I marry? You have stolen my future from me!" She wrapped her arms around herself as though that would protect her.

"It is not a marriage bond. It is not that," he was quick to stammer, attempting to dispel her fears. "It is a bond of blood, achieved by cutting the veins, by mingling the blood and the life, not by…not by intercourse. It is rather like a familial bond, something you might share with a sibling." His heart already felt as though it had been smashed upon the cold stone of the floor and he knew that he only had himself to blame for it.

"Oh," she said simply, letting out a deep breath, and then she shook her head. "Celeborn, forgive me...I…forgot myself for a moment. What I said just now…I…I did not mean it. I know that is not your character." But confusion still churned in her heart, for she had never heard of such a thing amongst her own people and she found that she did not understand it at all. Had he told her this soon after he had done it then it would have been easier to deal with, for the intimacy between them had not yet been renewed at that point.

"The memories I know you must be seeing, perhaps you have been thinking they are visions," he said by way of explanation, "the memories of which you personally have no recollection, memories that are not yours, that is why," he said. "You are not the only one who sees them. I see them too, things I could not possibly have seen, your memories of the two trees, of Tirion, of Alqualonde. It is a …a sort of effect of the bond, almost like a marriage in that way, the shared memories. But I cannot see your thoughts, I cannot speak to you in your mind as I would be able to if it were a marriage bond."

"Celeborn…I," she shook her head as if she had no words, indeed she did not, and they sat in silence for a while before Galadriel found herself able to speak again. "It is not that I am not grateful, I am. I am grateful that you saved my life but…" She knew that she ought not put much stock in what Maedhros has said about rushing into things, for her knew nothing of the relationship between her and Celeborn, but it was because his words had agreed with the latent fears in her heart that she had not been able to dismiss them entirely. She loved Celeborn, she was sure of it, she had for many centuries. She was not rushing into this with her eyes closed, and yet the sudden news of this bond was a great shock, for now she felt that he had removed whatever choices she might otherwise have had and that was a great blow to the heart.

"Would you rather I had let you die? Is it so terrible?" He implored her, his voice thick with concern. "I had precious few choices Galadriel. I did what I could, what I thought best. I would have wished you to do the same had our positions been reversed."

"No, it isn't that," she said, and he felt her hand on his again, squeezing, reassuring. Even that slight touch meant the world to him, nearly engendered hope in his heart that perhaps all was not lost, perhaps he had not hurt her as badly as he had feared. "It is just rather a lot to wrap my head around at the moment. A bond: that is a serious thing Celeborn. Those memories of mine that you have seen…those were private, personal, and I had no choice in whether to share them with you or not. And…and I wish that I had, for I would have shared them with you of my own volition and yet the fact that I was never given that option, never even made aware of what had been done, feels rather like a violation of sorts, even knowing that your intentions were good."

"I know," he said simply and then he shook his head, a tight knot in his throat. "I am sorry, Galadriel. I owe you an apology for having kept this from you for so very long. I had so many reasons stored up in my mind as to why I had done it, all worth nothing, for the truth of it is that they all have the same root, which is fear. I don't mean to make it sound so grand…" he murmured, "It was cowardly of me, and deeply hurtful and selfish. I know that an apology is so completely inadequate…" his voice trailed off into the silence and Galadriel did nothing to fill that quiet or alleviate the tension that hung between them.

"Celeborn…" She said at last. He knew what she was going to say and he hung his head. "This means you are…you are bound to my fate now doesn't it? The doom of Mandos lies upon you as well. For, if I am understanding this correctly then this is a sort of bond of kinship…"

"Yes," he nodded. He heard her sob before he felt the tears fall to where their hands were joined and he turned, instinctively, taking her into his arms, holding her close, his own tears falling freely now too as they clung to one another.

"It was never supposed to hurt you," she sobbed. "I hoped you were free of it. I hoped you had been spared. What hope is there now? I ought never to have left Aman. How was I supposed to know what lay in wait for me? How was I supposed to know that you were here and that you are so wonderful and that I would be your destruction?"

"Galadriel," he whispered into her cheek, "had we married I would have come under the same fate."

"No," she shook her head, "my husband you would have been, but you still would not have been of my blood. I have made you one of the dispossessed," she whispered with great regret.

"I am a Moriquendi," he told her, "I was already forsaken."

"Do not call yourself that," she said, looking up at him with eyes full of tears, "you are good, and kind, and wise. There is no darkness in you. Oh Celeborn, you should not have done it. It would have been better if you had let me die and yourself been spared!" Whatever revulsion she had felt for him earlier was gone now, supplanted by the overwhelming feeling of guilt that burdened her now, born of the knowledge that he had offered up his own life so that she might live.

"No," he said, "for I would rather live but a short while with your company than an eternity in a world without you. I knew what I was doing Galadriel, I knew from the moment I decided to make the bond. I knew that I was binding myself to your fate and I did so freely, of my own volition and conscious choice."

"Why?" She cried. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Because I love you, Galadriel," he said, "more than anything and for love of you I shall go even unto Mandos's halls if that is what is required of me." And she stared at him with wonder in a silence that was punctuated only by her broken and quiet sobs. His eyes too were wet and he reached up to wipe the tears away but Galadriel caught his hand and clasped it in her own.

"And here I have been so critical of your silence and delay," she said. "I thought that you did not love me but, in truth, I knew not the depth of your love. Can you ever forgive me?"

"It is I who should be begging your forgiveness," he said, "for having withheld this from you for so long."

"I would never wish my doom upon anyone," she said, "least of all you."

"For your life I can endure it," he said, "and I will."

They were silent then for a while and in that silence lay many things yet unsaid, as if all of it were too big for words and at last, heaving a great sigh, Galadriel returned to the matter at hand, saying, "but what does Galathil have to do with any of that?"

"Well that is how I gained access to you," Celeborn admitted. "I could not openly visit your hospital bed and so Galathil provided a distraction by injuring himself. Not a particularly noble thing to do, I know. The nurses tried to place him by the children's ward at first but it would have been too far from your bed for me to see you. And so I told them he did not like children and they moved him next to you instead. That nurse I was speaking to…she must be Galathil's wife."

"Yes," Galadriel laughed a small laugh as though she were trying to put their past conversation behind her, still wiping the dried salt of tears from her face. "That must be it. She is a nurse."

"Then you must tell her that Galathil does not despise children," Celeborn said, his eyes quick with worry. "Can you explain that to her for me? I think it would make things a good deal better for her."

"Yes, of course I will," Galadriel said. "You must help them Celeborn. Please, I beg you, please be their advocate to Thingol. They do love each other and there is a child to consider."

"Of course," Celeborn said, his heart softened now. "What is her name?"

"I promised that I would not tell you," Galadriel said and Celeborn nodded slowly.

"Very well," he said. "Then I shall go to Thingol straight away."

"You must wait," Galadriel said, "for Galathil does not yet know and so she must tell him. I will have her instruct Galathil to come to you once she has spoken to him of the matter and then the two of you can go to Thingol together."

"If she is not too far along perhaps a wedding ceremony can be arranged. I don't think Thingol will take it too badly," Celeborn told her. "I think we can set things right. Tell her she needn't worry." It almost felt as though he was reassuring himself that if things could be put to right for Galathil and Inwen that they could surely be put right for him and her as well.

"Yes," Galadriel said, and her voice was still shaky, weak, but he felt her thumb pressed tight against his palm. He knew what she was going to say before she said it; he knew her that well. "Celeborn," she whispered, "the matter of Inwen and Galathil I am prepared to move forward with but…but this…this other matter, this matter of what you have confessed, of the bond…of what will become of us…I need…time."

He nodded. He understood. What would have been a certain thing only a few years earlier had become so complex, so very difficult. "Of course," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"It's just…it's that I need to think…It is all rather a lot to take in." she stammered, the words tumbling out before she lapsed into silence.

"You do not owe me any explanations, nor any justifications," he said. His throat felt like sand but his words were thick with conviction. "But, whatever you would require me to do to make this right between us, whatever you need, I will do it if you only ask. Anything, Galadriel, I'll do anything you wish," he said.

"I…I will bear that in mind," she said, standing. "You did right to tell me at last, even though it took a great while, but now, what I need you to do is wait," she said and he looked up at her. She made as if to leave, her skirts rustling over the cobblestones but suddenly she turned back, having seen how horribly crushed he looked, how tears had risen in his eyes and she knew that he had risked what she had not been able to all those years ago. He had been willing to sacrifice his hopes for the sake of the truth that he owed her. "Celeborn," she whispered and he looked up, "it is only for a little while," she said, "until I understand this bond better, until all of this makes sense to me. "I can't make any promises but…" words seemed inadequate and she returned to his side, seating herself for a moment and, gently, pressed a kiss to his temple.

Celeborn turned, his forehead flush against hers, his hand cradling the back of her head and they say in the silence, the peace of a moment before he whispered softly, "may I?" She nodded against him and then felt the slightest brush of his lips against her brow. Squeezing his hand one last time she stood and was gone.

*****

**Footnote:** Just some canonical info on marriages among elves, especially concerning what has happened here with Galathil and Inwen.

"unless they desired soon to be married and were of fitting age [over 100], the betrothal awaited the judgement of the parents of either party.

In due time the betrothal was announced at a meeting of the two houses concerned, and the betrothed gave silver rings one to another. According to the laws of the Eldar this betrothal was bound then to stand for one year at least, and it often stood for longer. During this time it could be revoked by a public return of the rings, the rings then being molten and not again used for a betrothal. [...]

**But these ceremonies were not rites necessary to marriage; they were only a gracious mode by which the love of the parents was manifested, and the union was recognized which would join not only the betrothed but their two houses together. It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete. In happy days and times of peace it was held ungracious and contemptuous of kin to forgo the ceremonies, but it was at all times lawful for any of the Eldar, both being unwed, to marry thus of free consent one to another without ceremony or witness (save blessings exchanged and the naming of the Name [Illuvatar]; and the union so joined was alike indissoluble. In days of old [years of the trees, first age], in times of trouble, in flight and exile and wandering, such marriages were often made."**

J.R.R. Tolkien. "Laws and Customs Among the Eldar" (LACE) Morgoth's Ring v 12 of the History of Middle Earth. Houghton Mifflin. 1993. pp 210-213.


	26. The Audacity of Hope

  
**The Audacity of Hope**

In Cavern's Shade: 26th Chapter

*****

"In that book which is  
my memory...  
on the first page  
that is the chapter when  
I first met you  
appear the words...  
here begins a new life."

\- La Vita Nuova, Dante

*****  


**Author's Note:** This is the last chapter of Part II. Part III is not yet finished but I anticipate that it will be between 11-13 chapters. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I hope you are enjoying the story.

*****

It was already quite late in the day by the time that the knock came upon Celeborn's door. He had already dismissed his servants and so, setting aside the terms of the alliance with Nargothrond that Galadriel had drawn up and Thingol had asked him to review before Finrod arrived, he pushed himself up from the cushion he had been sitting on, hissing as he bumped his knee on the low table, and walked to the door. It really was no great surprise to find his brother on the other side. It was, however, quite surprising to see the vehemence with which he greeted him.

"YOU," Galathil hissed, his index finger pointing directly between his brother's eyes, "owe me!" His face was white as a sheet but his eyes were alive with some strange mixture of fear and determination.

"I see you've heard," Celeborn said with a grin, grabbing his brother by the collar and propelling him into his rooms. "Let's not talk about it in the corridor where everyone can hear."

"Don't you think you are getting out of this," Galathil was quick to reply as he grabbed Celeborn's bottle of whiskey on his way in, pulled the stopper, and took a long swig directly from the bottle before seating himself on the divan before the fire. Laughing, Celeborn moved to sit on the floor before the divan, leaning up against it.

"This is no laughing matter," Galathil said, giving his brother a dark glare but Celeborn only grinned and raised an eyebrow.

"Can you really not see the humor in it?" Celeborn asked, glancing at his distinctly unamused brother.

"What humor could there be in the prospect of Uncle tossing my wife and child out into the forest to fend for themselves?" Galathil replied with anger, disturbed that his brother was not taking this more seriously.

"Oh so now you are concerned for them," Celeborn said, rolling his eyes. Galathil only scowled.

"Of course I am concerned for them," he spat back.

"Then if you were so concerned how did they end up in this situation?" Celeborn asked. Galathil crossed his arms over his chest and worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

"I made a mistake," he mumbled.

"Not a very nice way to refer to your wife and your elfling," Celeborn said.

"Inwen is not a mistake! My child is not a mistake!" Galathil roared, nearly shooting off the divan in his anger.

"Now that is the way you should be talking when we go to speak to uncle about this," Celeborn said and Galathil's anger cooled, seeing what his brother had done. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

"You will help me?" He asked, sounding suddenly desperate now.

"Of course I will help you," Celeborn replied, patting his brother's knee. Galathil sighed.

"I still cannot believe that you and Galadriel knew about my own baby before I did," he said. "Poor Inwen…Celeborn she was so frightened, frightened that I would be angry with her. How foolish I was to wed her without even discussing the possibility of children! I never thought…" he sighed. "This is all my fault. Thingol would be right to be furious with me."

"What happened?" Celeborn asked, turning to look at his brother, and Galathil took a long breath before beginning.

"Well, of course you know that we met when I was in the houses of healing. I know it was only for a day or two but there was something about her that appealed to me in a way that no other woman ever had. It was…oh I don't know, that she treated all of the patients with such kindness, and she was so good with the little ones, and…she seemed so astute, so capable at everything she was doing. I…I could not stop thinking of her, even after they released me. But when I would see her around, near the laundries, or in the dining hall, or at a tavern or a shop or anywhere I felt this incredible rush of excitement, of happiness and I began to contrive ways in which I might see her again, spend a little more time with her, speak to her."

"And here you were calling me a madman," Celeborn quipped with a grin. "I had wondered why you suddenly seemed not to mind Galadriel as much as you once had," but Galathil was clearly not in the mood for Celeborn's particular brand of humor and he shot his older a glare that would have made an orc tremble in his boots.

"I…um…began to injure myself intentionally," Galathil said. "Just little things, scrapes, cuts…but of course she caught on to what I was doing and, at last I found the courage to confess my feelings to her which, miracle of miracles it seemed to me, she reciprocated. I have never felt anything like it, that soaring joy, as if I could fly," his face was lit for an instant with a smile. "But…well," his face grew sad again, "the whole kingdom was in such a commotion then. Galadriel had just returned, Uncle was all in a huff, you were taking so much criticism from the king's council and you were trying to deal with your feelings for Galadriel as well. The timing was just so poor and Inwen said that she didn't mind if we waited, that as long as she was with me she was happy."

"Then the peace came," he continued, "and at last things seemed to have settled down. But by then we had been hiding our relationship from Thingol for so long that it seemed a very daunting matter indeed to bring it up to him, to explain why we had kept it secret for so very long. It was easier to keep it secret, for we were already accustomed to doing that, but the waiting grew so long and things between us were growing more and more serious. The night of the long peace," he paused for a moment, "we were both just filled with so much joy and everyone was out on the lawn celebrating, so we took the opportunity to sneak away to my rooms instead of meeting in closets and out of the way places as we normally did. Things," he paused, "well, things got quite out of hand that night."

"I know the feeling," Celeborn mused.

"It was as though, before we quite knew it, we had spoken Illuvatar's name, and the vows, and then…I ought to have had more control but we had waited so very long and…we desired nothing more than to bind ourselves together, to know each other fully, to celebrate our love," He lapsed into silence.

"I knew it wasn't right," he said in a whisper, "living apart, leading separate lives, pretending, when in company, that I did not even know my wife's name or who she was. Inwen wanted to go to Thingol, for what was there to stop us in a time of peace, but I…I was cowardly, and frightened. I feared that Uncle would be furious, that we would be treated like traitors for having so casually flouted the customs of the princes of Menegroth."

"The child," he said, "was an accident, a selfish accident."

"It is not possible for an elfling to be conceived by accident," Celeborn said, "for it takes the will of both mother and father to create a new life." Galathil hung his head.

"Perhaps once day you shall know, Celeborn, but when you love someone that much, when you experience that bond, you want to take that love and make it into something real, something good. You…you want to make something greater than yourself, something greater than just the two of you. It…it is nearly impossible to explain unless you have felt it for yourself, but…those were the sorts of thoughts that I was having when last I lay with Inwen and it seems that she had them too and what has resulted is an elfling." A gentle smile crossed Galathil's face.

"You have my congratulations, brother," Celeborn said, placing a hand on his brother's knee and Galathil nodded.

"So you see, Celeborn," he said, "it is all my fault and Inwen is not to blame in the slightest. I am horribly frightened of Uncle's wrath, though, for her, for my child, I am willing to face it. And, I think I might have a little more confidence if you were there by my side."

"Now this is what I am thinking," Celeborn said. "We must approach this from the perspective of this being his first grandchild, the first child of a prince or princess of Doriath. The more he thinks about that the happier he will be. A child is a promise of the future. That is where we must direct his focus. And we will say nothing of this being an accident. We will act as though you had it all planned out, as though you wished to surprise him." Galathil laughed at last.

"You always have a plan, Celeborn," he said. "It really is no wonder that you are Uncle's chief counselor. But everyone knows that Uncle hates surprises."

"Yes, but then you will merely ask his forgiveness for having been so misguided. It is far easier to ask forgiveness than permission and, at this point, you honestly have no other choice. How far along is she?" Celeborn asked, "perhaps there is still time to have a ceremony before it becomes obvious that she is with child."

"Only two months, but everyone will know why we organized it with such haste. I have disgraced her Celeborn, and disgraced our family."

Celeborn leaned forward, "do not worry brother, let us go and speak to uncle together. Things may not have gone the way that he would have liked but I am sure that he will accept it eventually; he must."

*****

It had been a very long while indeed since Galadriel had entered this place and it seemed strange now, almost like a dream as she stood there in the center of the room, looking at the looms that lay silent like great sleeping beasts, covered in sheets. The sun filtered down through the canopy above and Galadriel strode forward, casting off the cover from the loom she had once occupied, watching it as it fluttered to the floor like a bird coming to roost, a spool of gray silken thread in her hands. It was time.

She took a deep breath and then began to thread the loom. She hardly thought about it; she did not need to. Her fingers remembered the movements, still held the memory of the proper tension after all of these years, just as they remembered the feel of him, of his skin, of his warmth. When it was finished she ran her hands across the strings as though she were strumming a harp, watching the tiny puffs of dust that were released as they rose up, glimmering, through shafts of sunlight. And then she began to weave, the loom whirring to life as she passed the shuttle back and forth, back and forth until it became a blur that she could hardly see, her fingers dancing across the strings.

She closed her eyes and remembered the boy with starlit hair who sat in the tallest branches of the trees, trees that lived, and breathed, and walked, reaching up to the sun, the smell of honeysuckle in spring, the thundering of the Sirion, the sight of dogwood trees blooming alongside a creek, a young man with hair the color of the moon who walked through a meadow lit with the burning orange and gold of sunrise, of an elf full-grown with hair that gleamed of silver sitting in a canoe at the mouth of the Sirion, paddle across his knees, looking out across the ocean beneath a sky filled with stars. She gasped, choking back tears, the shuttle falling from her trembling fingers to clatter to the ground and hands closed tight over hers, hands that bore a strength greater than that of any elf.

"I love him." She whispered to the silence and to the world.

"Then open your eyes," Melian said and she obeyed to see what lay before her: a perfect weft of gray cloth and yet it was not exactly the same as what Melian and her maidens wove, for it did not only blend seamlessly with shadow, but with light as well. Finding herself unable to speak, she turned to Melian, looking into her eyes with questions unasked.

"It is more perfect," the queen said, "than anything I have ever woven."

"And yet I am afraid," she whispered. "I am afraid of what this all means, of Celeborn being bound to my fate, of this bond that I do not understand, of these visions that cloud my mind!"

"My sunshine child," Melian said with a smile, seating herself besides Galadriel, clasping her hands tightly as she met her gaze. "Do you know why such a bond is forbidden?"

"You knew what he did?" Galadriel asked.

"I knew from the second that he performed the bond. Something so old, so sacred, so powerful could never have escaped my notice," Melian said.

"And you…you are not bothered by it?" Galadriel asked her.

"That bond is not forbidden because it is wrong, but because it so very powerful, Galadriel," she said. "If done by someone with the wrong intentions it could be horribly devastating, used for terrible purposes. But, done from a place of love, as Celeborn did for you, well then it can be a very beautiful thing indeed, if you are willing to accept it."

"I don't understand it!" Galadriel cried. "I don't understand any of this!"

"Love is not a thing to be understood, but a thing to be practiced," Melian said, looking deep into her eyes. "Tell me what troubles you about this bond, confide in me and I shall see to it that what worries you have are assuaged."

"Would it…would it interfere with a marriage bond?" Galadriel asked, the true question that had been plaguing her heart.

"Interfere?" Melian asked. "No. If you were to marry Celeborn then it would augment a marital bond, enhance it, but never detract from it. And if you wish to marry another then it will not prevent you from doing that and still your bond of friendship with Celeborn will remain intact. Though rare indeed, there are those amongst the march wardens who have saved the lives of their friends in such a manner. And yet, I cannot help but think that what you desire from Celeborn is more than friendship, so why then are you afraid?"

Galadriel was silent for a while and then she said, "I…I have brought the curse of Mandos down upon Celeborn's head. The manner in which I left Nargothrond was foolish and rash. Had I…had I taken an escort with me I would never have been attacked. Nay!" She cried, "had my attention not lapsed for that briefest of moments then I never would have been shot. I have doomed him, and all in the matter of a second."

"Galadriel," Melian fixed her with an unwavering gaze, "what Celeborn did was of his own free will, just as your returning to Menegroth was of your free will. He knew the risks and he was willing to accept them for your sake. Most probably he has been brought under your curse but nothing in this world is for certain and it seems to me not only unwise, but also tragic to found the future of our happiness upon such uncertainties. If you love him, if he loves you, then let that be enough, for even we two who are prescient cannot foresee the future except dimly, as through a tarnished mirror."

"And what if it is not enough…" Galadriel whispered, casting her eyes down.

"Is it truly so difficult for you to believe that you are worthy of love?" Melian asked her, an echo of the sentiment that Luthien had expressed years ago.

"I…I have nothing to give him…" Galadriel began to stammer.

"Give?" Melian asked.

"What could I possibly offer him that can equal what he has given me?" Galadriel asked, her eyes filled with tears unshed. "I have no kingdoms, no lands, little respect amongst his people…He gave me a new name, a new life, and I cannot repay the debt!"

"Galadriel," Melian drew her into a tight embrace, "what Celeborn did he did expecting nothing in return from you. I am certain that even if you did not reciprocate his love, simply seeing you live a life of happiness would be enough, in his mind, to justify what he has done. He gave to you a new chance, yes, but more than that he gave you love, and love has nothing to do with merit but rather, a great deal more to do with forgiveness, acceptance, atonement. Love is a gift, not something to be traded and exchanged and bought. Forget Feanor and forget the oath to which he bound your cousins. Love exacts no price, no oath."

"You…you do not think Celeborn resents me for it?" Galadriel asked and Melian looked into her eyes, smoothing her hair away from her face.

"You do not need me to answer that question," she replied. "You know Celeborn and you know his heart. If your positions had been reversed would you have done it, would you have offered your life in exchange for his?"

"Even now I would offer my life if it could but remove the curse of Mandos that now lies upon him," Galadriel said with resolution, a fire kindling in her eyes.

"Then I think you know what you must do," Melian said. "It is time to finish what has been started." The queen rose then, leaving Galadriel to her task and she began to pass the shuttle back and forth again as, in her mind, she imagined that she was opening a door, stepping forth into a world she had never seen before, a world where a silver-haired child took her hand and slowly and gently began to lead her through the halls of memory.

*****

"Well, Uncle took that far better than I thought he might," Galathil said with a grin as he lounged about on his brother's settee. Celeborn sat upon the floor, leaning against that same settee, a glass of whiskey in his hand. "Although he did look for a moment as though he meant to take off my head. I am excited for the wedding ceremony though. I hardly think I can wait an entire week for it."

"You doubted my powers of persuasion?" Celeborn joked, taking a swig from his glass, and Galathil laughed.

"Not entirely," Galathil quipped and then, growing more serious, he said, "thank you, Celeborn, truly. "It is a great weight off of my shoulders to have my wife living with me, to know that she is safe now, and happy, that even now our child grows within her. Truly, brother, it is such an indescribable joy that I could never find words to tell you of that exact sensation I felt when I put my hand on her stomach this morning before bed and felt the fëa of our child being nurtured there." A radiant smile lit his face.

"Well it was partially my fault," Celeborn admitted. "A good deal of grief on Inwen's part could most probably have been spared had I never told her you disliked children." Galathil shook his head.

"How could you have ever predicted this turn of events?" He said. "It is not your fault in the slightest. It is entirely my fault. I ought not to have been so stupid, so careless and thoughtless. The thought that I have caused Inwen such pain and trouble is completely abhorrent to me. I don't know what I was thinking – binding ourselves on a whim without speaking to Uncle, without a proper betrothal."

"That's exactly the matter," Celeborn said with a laugh, "you weren't thinking at all, or at least not with your head."

"Oh? Know something of it yourself eh?" Galathil raised his eyebrows. Celeborn shook his silver head, grinning as he sipped from his glass.

"I nearly bound myself to Galadriel once," he admitted, "that time so long ago when we traveled to Nargothrond together. I begged her, pleaded with her."

"Is that so?" Galathil asked, grinning mischievously.

"She refused me," Celeborn told him.

"Hmm, one of her wiser decisions perhaps," Galathil said and Celeborn reached up to dig an elbow into his brother's ribs. "Ouch! Celeborn!" Galathil yelped.

"I'll have you know it was a very traumatic experience for me," Celeborn chided his younger brother, "indeed, I wept."

"You cried like an elfling because she wouldn't bind with you?" Galathil burst into a roar of laughter and was unable to stop until well after tears had begun to leak from his eyes. Celeborn had a laugh himself, wondering at how something he had once seen as so upsetting had become so very humorous.

"Not one of my better moments," Celeborn chuckled.

"Yes, well, perhaps it is for the best anyway," Galathil said with a broad grin. "I would imagine that sex with Galadriel might very well prove to be traumatic."

"It certainly would have been then, wouldn't it have?" Celeborn joked. "Looking into her mind then I would have found out about the kinslaying rather quickly."

Galathil burst into laughter once more, wiping the tears from his eyes, and nodded vigorously. "I would say it is still too soon to be joking about the kinslaying, brother," he managed to gasp out in his laughter.

"Still, it might be rather nice, I suppose, to be fully with the one you love," Celeborn said quietly and that put an immediate end to Galathil's laughter.

"How much longer will you wait?" Galathil asked, his voice having a bit of an edge now. "You love her, Celeborn. I knew it from the day that she returned, that you loved her still, even if you did not know it yourself, even if you were unable to admit it. And she loves you too. It is obvious. Besides, look at how she had built herself up here, how even now she is brokering an alliance between our kingdom and her brother's. Certainly there might still be those who would try to claim that she is an unsuitable match but that argument would never carry any serious weight."

"After I told her of the bond she said that she needed time," Celeborn said, rubbing absentmindedly at his forearm. There was no scar from where he had made the cut, but he still felt the wound nonetheless. "I cannot blame her. It is a very heavy thing to consider."

"Wargshit," Galathil said. "You love her, she loves you. That's all there is to it."

"No it's not," Celeborn replied. "I did not do right by her last time but this time I shall. She has not spoken to me of her feelings since I told her of the bond. She may very well despise me. I could see the disgust with me clearly written on her face."

"She is incapable of hating you," Galathil said. "It is almost as if she were born to love you. She could no sooner hate you than she could fly to the moon. It's sickening really, the potential that the two of you are wasting. And why? Do you fear her?" Galathil asked him.

"No," Celeborn said resolutely, for the answer was clear to him now. "I fear the part of me that is gone now which I can never reclaim. I fear this new part of me that I do not know, that seems almost like a stranger. I fear myself. I fear the things that I would do for her sake. I fear that I have lost control of my heart, that it runs now of its own accord, like a deer in the forest."

"Do you think that for Inwen's sake, for the sake of my child, for your sake I would not tear our kingdom down and rebuild it in a day if that was what was required of me?" Galathil asked, "It is love that you feel for her, Celeborn, not the ephemeral fleeting of passion, but love of the truest sort."

"Some of us prefer not to rush into things irresponsibly," Celeborn said, a tinge of anger in his voice.

"Perhaps you should rush in!" Galathil spat and the brothers sat in silence for a few moments, nursing their hurt feelings.

"My apologies," they both stammered at the same time.

"Can you…can you feel her through that bond?" Galathil asked, the unpleasantness of a moment earlier forgotten, and Celeborn nodded.

"I see her memories," he said, "her memories as she sees them at least and there are times when I can almost feel her emotions, but her thoughts are beyond my power to see."

Galathil smiled. "Do you like feeling so close to her?" He asked and Celeborn nodded.

"Yes," he replied, "but that closeness is always accompanied by some feeling of hollowness, as if I wish to be even closer to her, to see her thoughts as well, to feel her fëa moving in concert with mine, to speak to her in our minds."

"Then what you feel is the desire to wed her," Galathil said, "for that is what a marriage bond is like, the best possible closeness that you can imagine. It is, sometimes, almost as though I live in Inwen and she lives in me but yet we are still both distinct. I don't know how to describe it well, but it is the best sort of feeling, the greatest kind of happiness. And now, with our baby, I can feel that little life within her, can feel the life of the child drawing energy and strength and happiness from the both of us, like…like a flower drinking up water I suppose."

"I am very happy for you," Celeborn said to his brother with a smile. Indeed, he could hardly wait to meet his new niece or nephew, to see if the child would resemble his brother as he had been as a child. But, their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Are you expecting visitors?" Galathil asked and Celeborn shook his head but, momentarily, his footman appeared. And yet the servant did not manage to enter the room, indeed, he did not even manage to announce the name of the visitor before he was eclipsed in both movement and speech by Galadriel. She pushed past the footman, coming to stand before Celeborn, her eyes filled with determination, and in her hands she bore a cape of Sindarin cloth, but it was not quite the same as the usual ones that Melian and her maidens wove. Instead, it seemed to absorb not only shadow, but light as well, as though it would cause the wearer to blend in completely with both the light of the sun and the light of the moon.

"The bond," she said, her voice thick with confidence, "you did the right thing. Thank you." Celeborn stumbled to his feet in surprise and Galadriel met his gaze as she shoved the cape into his arms.

"I love you," she said. "I always have and I always will." And with that she turned about on her heel, marching from the room, followed by the distraught footman exclaiming his apologies, the heels of her golden slippers beating a sharp staccato across the floor, the door slamming behind her.

Silence reigned supreme in the wake of her exit until Galathil, his eyes still wide with surprise, said, "brother, unless I am very much mistaken, she desires to wed you too." But Celeborn was a flurry of movement now, throwing open the lid of a chest and pulling out bags of gold and silver coins. "Where are you going?" Galathil asked as his brother took the bags and turned towards the door.

"To the smithy," Celeborn said. "There is an order I need to place." And with that he sprinted from the room.

*****

"Brother!" Finrod leapt off of his horse and straight into his sister's waiting arms, swinging her around as she laughed, squeezing her as tightly as he could until she yelped for him to let go.

"Well look at you!" He said, taking a step back. "It seems you've made her into a proper lady at last," he said, turning to Thingol. "I will never know how you managed it. My parents tried for years, I assure you, all to no avail." The king grinned.

"Astoundingly enough," he said, "I believe she managed to do it all on her own. Although, I have had reports that she still gallivants in the forests like a hoodlum from time to time."

"Ah yes," Finrod said with a hearty laugh, "I suppose a cat cannot completely change her stripes after all." He reached out to ruffle his sister's hair and she batted his hands away.

"My apologies, Felgaund," Thingol said, placing a hand on the Noldo's shoulder, "I do hate to interrupt such a joyful reunion, but I think we would all be far more merry if we could renew our alliance as soon as possible. Will you join me with my council then so that we might speak?"

"Gladly," Finrod said, "for there is much that I must tell you as well. I have been involved in some most unusual occurrences of late that I believe you will wish to hear about."

The feast that evening in celebration of the renewed alliance between Doriath and Nargothrond was a very fine affair indeed. The great hall was alive with revelers seated around low tables enjoying the finest dishes that Menegroth's kitchens could prepare. All of the silver lanterns had been lit, glimmering in the trees above, and music filled the air with a festive atmosphere. Around a low table, seated on plentiful cushions, Celeborn was beside Finrod, who sat near his sister, and, across from them, Thingol and Melian, who was attended her handmaidens, and the princess Luthien as well.

"They call themselves men you say?" Thingol asked, deeply intrigued, lifting a small salted fish to his mouth and eating it whole.

"Yes, and they are like us in form, though not as strong, yet they are bearded like the dwarves, and have a similar lifespan. They grow old and sick; they die. They are slower to understand, for when first I encountered them their music was but rudimentary, however they are intelligent, for I stayed amongst them for some time and found that they learned Sindarin in but a short while. One might even say, perhaps, that they learned it with greater ease than my sister," he grinned and Celeborn laughed, but Galadriel glared at both of them, though she could not quite keep her lips from curling into a smile. It was good to see all of them so happy. Thingol motioned to her and she refilled his wine.

"Are they peaceful?" Thingol asked.

"They appear to be," Finrod replied. "Though the Green Elves have grown displeased, for these men have settled on land that they claim. I have led them eastward towards Estolad and, with your permission, I ask that they be allowed to abide there so that they might cause no disturbance in your kingdom."

"You may consider my permission granted," Thingol said. "I am very glad that you have brought this matter to my attention. From whence did they come, do you think, Felagund?"

"How they came to be I cannot rightly say," Finrod replied, "though they believe that they were not created by the Valar, as the Onodrim and the Dwarves were, but by Illuvatar himself." Thingol raised a silver eyebrow questioningly.

"The children of the sun," Melian said with a smile and Finrod bowed his head to her in a sign of understanding.

"Well said, your highness, for it seems they first awoke at the start of this age, when the sun rose for the first time in the sky," Finrod told her. "But they did not enter into Beleriand until around 305."

"And still they have escaped my notice for over a century and a half," Thingol said, looking displeased. Melian rubbed his arm soothingly. "Tell me then, what sort of government have they and who is the one who governs them?"

"They call themselves the House of Beor, for one called Beor was their forbearer and led them hence over the mountains into Targelion. Their lord was then Baran, the son of Beor, who have both now passed beyond this world. His son was Boron and his was Boromir, who died leaving three grown children. The oldest, their lord, is called Bregor, the father of my friend Barahir, whose son Beren is now full grown."

"Goodness," Thingol said with a laugh, "it is rather difficult to keep track of so many generations!"

"It took me a while myself to keep them all straight," Finrod said with a laugh. "Their lord Bregor has a younger sister known as Andreth the wise, Andreth Saelind as I call her." He paused here for a moment. "She is beloved by my brother Aegnor." At those words Galadriel looked up, startled, but she did not say a word.

"Yet what should become of one of the Eldar if he sought to bind himself to a mortal?" Thingol said. "Such a thing seems most unwise to me." And Galadriel glanced at Celeborn while the king conversed with her brother, for a wave of darkness had come over her suddenly, like a shadow passing before the sun, and Celeborn caught her gaze, his eyes questioning, wondering what it was that bothered her.

"Yet who can legislate love?" Melian asked. "The heart desires what it desires and it will not be ruled by laws or even counsel."

"That is true," Finrod said, "but legislating marriage is another matter entirely. And, as you know, my people have a law that no marriages shall take place during a time of war."

"Is now not a time of peace?" Melian asked.

"For Doriath perhaps," Finrod replied, "but the Noldor yet lay siege to Angbad and Aegnor will not forsake custom, not even for the sake of his beloved."

"I cannot find fault with his decision," Thingol said. "Why sacrifice all eternity merely for love of a woman and the promise of but a few short years with her? He might have infinite time with one of his own kind."

"And if I had been a human is that what you would have done?" Melian asked, her voice uncharacteristically terse. "Would I have been worth less to you than eternity? Would you daughter?" Thingol looked at her then very strangely but Galadriel could feel her own heart quivering within her chest, as though this moment marked some calm before a storm.

The images flashed before her mind as quickly as the flowing of the Sirion, one following the other: Luthien lying still and unmoving, her dark hair strewn with white niphredil, a silver-haired elf dead in the darkness, surrounded by a pool of crimson blood, a strange, gaunt, emaciated winged figure that spoke with Melian's voice, Mablung's face, Beleg's. She felt a familiar presence step into her mind, felt Celeborn enter as though he had opened a door and shut it behind him and she grew calm again as memories of silvery fish in the shaded shallows of a marsh, of wildflowers of pink, and gold, and orange filled her mind. She felt his fingers reach for hers beneath the table and she grasped them as their eyes met. She knew that he had felt it move through her and into him. She squeezed his hand, glad for his comfort, oddly breathless at the novel experience of being aware, for the first time, of how their memories were flowing together. Something about it left her wanting more

"You will be staying for the wedding, I hope?" Thingol said to Finrod and Galadriel and Celeborn both turned their minds back to the conversation at hand.

"I would be honored," Finrod said.

"Then you must attend the hunt with us tomorrow," Thingol told him. "That is, if you are feeling up to it after your journey here. The wedding is now only two days hence and I will not have a prince of Doriath married without enough venison to fill the bellies of every man, woman, and child in this city." He looked over at Galathil and Inwen, who sat, hand in hand, and favored them with a broad smile.

And so, on the following afternoon, Finrod sat in the saddle, watching Thingol, Beleg, and Galathil tear off after a deer while he bent down and patted his horse, a creature who was far more inclined to meandering through the fields and nibbling at clover than in chasing after wild game. Ordinarily he too would have been gallivanting off with the others, pursuing the game that would be served up at Galathil's wedding feast, but today he was merely enjoying the feeling of the breeze in his hair, the smell of spring flowers, and the beauty of Doriath's forests, for it had been a while indeed since he had visited this place.

"I would have your sister's hand," the familiar voice came from his left and Finrod nearly leapt out of his saddle in shock. He turned to his right to find Celeborn seated upon his chestnut mare, riding at his side.

"In the name of Varda, I shall never know how you manage to always catch me unawares, my friend," Finrod gasped, still reeling from surprise. Celeborn grinned and laughed.

"Someone has to keep you on your toes," the Sinda quipped.

"You Sindar really do get straight to the point don't you," Finrod mused, shaking his golden head at his friend. "I have not seen you in centuries and the first thing you say to me is regarding a request for my sister's hand."

"I rather prefer to get business out of the way before pleasantries," Celeborn remarked.

"Yes, I do remember that," Finrod laughed.

"And besides," Celeborn said, "I thought you understood that any interest I have in you as a friend is merely a byproduct of my interest in your sister." Finrod turned to his friend in complete shock. It took a moment for it to register in his mind that his friend had only been joking. Even Celeborn had not managed to say it with a straight face and he cracked a grin at Finrod, who laughed in reply. "It is just that last time I did you a great injury by not asking so I would rather do things properly this time around," Celeborn said by way of explanation.

"Peace, peace, my friend," Finrod said in return to Celeborn, "you need offer me no explanation. I understand well enough, and I know that the love you bear one another is true, only, I would wish to know whether you mean that you are asking for her hand in courtship or in marriage."

"Well," Celeborn paused, "at present I mean to ask for her hand in courtship although I intend for marriage to follow soon after."

"Indeed," Finrod was amused and raised a golden brow at his friend. "Why the haste, Celeborn?"

"I would have thought you knew both your sister and I well enough by now to know how impatient the two of us are," Celeborn replied.

"That is true," Finrod laughed. "But at last things are turning in your favor it seems. You may consider the permission of the House of Finarfin granted then, for both courtship and marriage," he said. "Indeed, there is no one else I would rather see her wed than you, Celeborn."

"I am rather a remarkable specimen am I not," Celeborn said with a toothy grin and Finrod burst into laughter.

"Rather remarkably arrogant," Felagund retorted. Celeborn shook his head.

"I all seriousness, Felagund," he said, "I was rather hoping you could help me with something."

"Oh?" Finrod asked curiously.

"I would very much like to render your sister speechless," Celeborn confided in his friend and Finrod laughed long and hard.

"A worthwhile endeavor," he said, "though one I myself have yet to achieve. If you can manage it then I shall be most amazed."

*****

Inwen was a vision in silver silk the color of a moonbeam that was bustled in the back with a train nearly twice as long as she was tall. The embroidery was done in silver, so subtle that when she stood in torchlight it was not visible at all; under moonlight, however, it gleamed with startling luminescence and Galadriel was reminded that the Sindar had lived for a very long while with only the light of the stars for company and thus it was in the darkness and pale light of those same stars that their finest works were revealed. At the princess-to-be's throat was a resplendent collar of amethysts, pearls, and diamonds that sparkled like a thousand stars and upon her brow she wore a crown of lush white and delicate pink peonies. Her smile was more radiant than any jewel she bore upon her person as she walked arm in arm with Galathil through the center of the great hall while the people who stood to either side bowed low before them.

Galathil was dressed more formally than Galadriel had ever seen him in a tunic of silver that matched Inwen's dress with breeches of dark grey velvet and boots of black leather with silver toes. He wore a cape of deep blue brocade trimmed in the fur of a white wolf and a collar of brilliant sapphires set in silver. His long, dark hair had been brushed smooth and plaited into complex braids that were held with silver clasps and upon his brow he wore a crown of black hematite inlaid with crystal stones, a much simpler crown than Celeborn's, but beautiful nonetheless.

Galadriel stood near the dais with the king's other ministers and, when Inwen and Galathil reached that place, bowing low before the royal family, Thingol stepped down from his throne to stand at Galathil's side and a woman Galadriel had never before seen, whom she must assume to be Inwen's mother, stepped forward to stand at her daughter's side. The woman looked both exceedingly nervous and exceedingly pleased, as though she could hardly believe that her daughter was marrying a prince of Doriath, and even Inwen herself looked surprised that all of this was really happening.

Galadriel knew that the rumors had spread around Doriath like wildfire, rumors that the couple were already married, rumors that, indeed, the bride was already with child, rumors that had cropped up in response to the rather unexpected and sudden nature of the wedding. But it seemed now that on this day, at least, the rumors had been forgotten, for joy was the greater and Galadriel could feel the happiness swelling in her own heart as the couple turned towards each other, joining hands. Then Thingol and Inwen's mother invoked the blessings, Inwen and Galathil spoke the words of Illuvatar, and they exchanged bands of gold.

It was a rather short ceremony, far shorter than the Noldorin one in which jewels were exchanged, but a beautiful one nonetheless and, after a moment of confusion in which Galadriel wondered if the ceremony was really complete, she came to reason that perhaps shorter ceremonies were more enjoyable after all, for a myriad of servants were already bustling about, bringing out trays of fragrant foods, and Galadriel could feel her mouth watering in anticipation.

When everyone had eaten to their hearts' content and drunk their fill, and more, the tables were cleared away, as was the food, though the wine and liquor still flowed in abundance. Galathil led Inwen to the center of the floor, Dairon struck up a tune, and the new couple began to dance. It was rather romantic after all, Galadriel thought as she looked up at the starry ceiling above. The hall was a dusky twilight now, lit only by the silver lanterns that hung from the stone trees and the glow of the moon, and the other elves gradually took to dancing as well, slowly weaving their way through the adamantine forest of Thingol's great hall.

There was something about this evening that was so very pleasant that Galadriel could not help but be filled with happiness and peace and forget nearly entirely the matter of the renewal of the alliance with Nargothrond, or even the trouble that she had had with Celeborn. This night seemed so perfect, as if all was right with the world, and, as she looked out over the great merriment and at all of the smiling faces, she felt that she could well understand Celeborn's feelings for this kingdom. She sighed, leaning her head against a tree and crossing her arms over her chest as she watched the light of the stars reflected in the creeks that ran hither and thither through the moss covered floor. Every now and then the fish would come to the surface, mouthing at the stars as if they thought they could eat them, and Galadriel laughed softly to herself at their antics.

"I was hoping," a deep and familiar voice said, "that you might just perhaps find it in your heart to grace your favorite brother with a dance." Galadriel looked up to find Finrod in breeches of a rich brown and a burgundy tunic of silk, standing across from her and felt a grin spreading across her face.

"Whoever said you are my favorite?" She asked, uncrossing her arms as Finrod extended his hand to her along with a bow.

"Favorite or not, may I request the pleasure of your company in this dance?" Finrod queried once more and Galadriel laughed at his mock formality.

"How very polite of you, brother," she said, "so polite, in fact, that I simply must accept your invitation." And she placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.

"Yes, well," Finrod said jokingly as they began to dance, "us Noldorin princes do at least have that advantage over our Sindarin brethren in that regard."

"Sindarin boys can be very nice too," Galadriel said as Finrod spun her about. Her brother laughed.

"Well you are biased, of course," Finrod said.

"And how so?" Galadriel asked, feigning innocence.

"You've had your eyes fixed on a certain Sindarin prince all evening," Finrod whispered with a grin.

"I most certainly have not," Galadriel denied it. It was true though. She had hardly been able to tear her eyes away from Celeborn this evening and he, it had seemed, had been equally incapable of removing his gaze from her. She was becoming used to the idea of having him in her mind, was beginning to like it, and her skin seemed to bear some remembrance of the feel of his fingers intertwined with her own as they had been only a few days prior. She longed for his touch again.

"See? Even now you are looking for him," Finrod laughed and Galadriel noticed that she had indeed been scanning the hall for those green eyes that had been fixed upon hers all evening. "He is not here," Finrod said, "not anymore."

"What?" Galadriel asked, confused.

"He is attending to some business," Finrod said, "some business in the smithy."

"Nonsense," Galadriel laughed, thinking that Finrod meant to play some joke on her, just as Galathil had played on Celeborn the night of the party. "He hates the smithy and never goes down there. Nor is he interested in metalcrafting or in jewels."

"Perhaps it was not for himself that he went there," Finrod said with a sly grin. "After all, my intentions are not what they first appeared either, for as lovely as it is to dance with you, sister, I must admit that it was Celeborn who ordered me do so."

"Why would he do something like that?" Galadriel laughed again, wondering why her normally sensible brother was acting so very silly.

"Perhaps because he wanted to ensure that you did not wander off, that no one else stole you away, that he would know where to find you when he was ready," Finrod told her and Galadriel felt as though her heart had stopped.

"You can't mean..." she gasped, her mouth dropping open. Suddenly she felt a spark of hope beginning to grow now, nearly fanned to full flame, the fluttering of her heart in her chest, the trembling of her hands as Finrod took her gently by the shoulders and turned her about.

Celeborn was standing there and he looked a proper prince for once, wearing breeches of deep grey with boots of black leather and a tunic of rich, forest green beneath which a crisp white collar embroidered with silver thread stood against his throat and about his neck was a magnificent carcanet of silver filigree crafted in the shape of leaves and set with diamonds as big as eggs. About his shoulders he wore a cape of deep grey, nearly black, with the pelts of two gray wolves about the collar and on his brow he wore his crown, a splendid thing of black, glimmering, metal set with gems in the colors of the forest, rich green emeralds, brilliant honey-colored stones of amber, sapphires as deep and blue as the Sirion. From the sides of it hung elaborately knotted black cords upon which were strung flawless pearls from the Falas, and polished beads of wood, topaz, and animal bone, ornately carved. More magnificent than any of it was his hair, silver as starlight, mark of Sindarin royalty, that hung long and straight, spilling over his shoulders like a waterfall in moonlight.

"May I have her hand, Finrod?" Celeborn asked with a courteous bow.

"Well Galadriel," Finrod said, turning to her, "may he?" She had rather forgotten how to speak and so she only nodded numbly. Then Finrod took her hand and set it in Celeborn's, which was warm, and comforting, and familiar, and she grasped it with certainty, with love, as she looked into his eyes, the color of evergreens.

"It rather appears I have taken your breath away," Celeborn said with a smile.

"You have," she managed to stammer at last. Her heart was flopping about in her chest like a fish on land and she almost felt as though she would be gasping for air as well in a moment.

"May I?" He asked, bowing, and Galadriel nodded.

"Yes, of course, I mean, p…please," she stammered and he placed a hand on her waist as she moved hers to his shoulder and they began to dance.

It all rather seemed like a dream as they moved gracefully about the great hall, beneath the sparkling silver lanterns and the verdant canopy of emerald leaves, over the soft mosses of the earth and the cool, crystalline streams that flowed there, amongst the silvery trunks of the stone beeches and through the glowing golden lilies. Menegroth seemed as magical to her as the night she had first arrived here, and the prince of this kingdom just as intriguing, just as handsome, more so perhaps. For a while they seemed lost entirely in one another, their gazes never wavering from the other, their steps falling in perfect unison.

Presently Galadriel said, "everyone can see us. Are you sure it is alright?" For her eyes had already caught Thingol's and Melian's, both of whom had smiled, and Luthien's, who looked practically ecstatic, but there were others who looked less thrilled by their association. Celeborn merely put a finger to her chin and turned her eyes back to his.

"Do not worry about them," he whispered. "I don't care what any of them think. I am here with you and you are here with me and that is all that matters." And that had put Galadriel's heart at ease, or rather, her heart had blossomed and she could not help but smile now as they swept across the dance floor.

"You're looking rather splendid and gallant," she said with a grin, looking up into that face she loved so well.

He laughed at that and said, "I would not have it said that your Sindarin suitor was any less fine than any of your Noldorin, or Vanyarin, or Telerin ones."

"And is that what you are, my suitor?" She asked, her heart fluttering in her chest like the wings of a bird.

"I seem to recall that you once accused me of being the more impatient one," Celeborn said with a grin and then, before Galadriel could protest, he said, "that is a matter for later, not for now."

"You're teasing me, tormenting me," she whispered with a grin and Celeborn nodded in confirmation.

"Haven't I always?" He replied with a smirk.

"I was only rather surprised is all, to see you dressed so finely," she said, teasing him with a wry grin. "I am far more accustomed to seeing you in your old hunting clothes."

"I can, from time to time, do things properly, Galadriel," he said and she elbowed him.

"Rather a refreshing thing to see," she said and he elbowed her.

"I feel compelled to tell you how beautiful you are," he told her then. It was true. She was wearing a dress of pale green chiffon that left her elegant arms bare, a girdle of pale hammered gold sat low across her hips, her golden hair hung unbound, two splendid diamonds hung like raindrops from her earlobes, and her face was alight with happiness. His comment had caused her to blush, despite the lighthearted banter they had just exchanged. She had been told that she was beautiful many times but when Celeborn said it she felt as though it had an entirely new meaning.

"Thank you," she told him, taking a deep breath, for she knew not how much longer she could contain her love for him. Even now, looking into his green eyes, she wanted to kiss him so badly that it almost hurt.

"Your hands are trembling," he whispered then and Galadriel swallowed hard.

"I am rather nervous," she confessed.

"I hope it is not because my advances are unwelcome," he said with a questioning gaze, though she could tell from his smile that he knew this was not the case. But, perhaps he still wondered if what she had said before held true, if she needed more time to consider the bond.

"No," she said, reassuring him, wanting him to know that she wanted this just as much as he did. "I assure you that your advances are most welcome." Her heart was beating as fast as a sparrow's wings now and she almost relished these last few torturous moments before they would kiss, for she knew that this time when they kissed there would be a line drawn in her life, a time before and a time after this kiss; that everything afterwards would be different, and new, and more wonderful than what had passed.

They had come to a stop and Celeborn said, "then shall we quit this place?" It was a question he had asked her centuries ago.

"And where will we go?" She whispered, remembering the words.

"Only to the willows," he said, "for I wish to be alone with you, if you will allow it."

"Then take my hand," she said, "and I shall go with you." He offered it to her then and, arm in arm, they quit the great hall and wove their way through the labyrinthine corridors of Menegroth until at last they had come to the great gates of the city. They passed through these and out onto the lawn where couples lay stargazing as they too had done so many years ago, walking the distance to the willow grove, where the grass was lush and verdant, where the long, slender branches of the willows, shining as if they had been rubbed with silver, trailed in the crystalline streams that ran there as the wind rustled gently in the leaves through which moonlight softly filtered. It was a beautiful place, as beautiful as she remembered, and peaceful, though touched by a primordial quality that made it strange, and wild, and majestic.

"After all these years you are still not afraid to walk alone in the forest at night with a dark elf by your side?" He asked her, eyes playful, as they made their way through the ferns and beneath the canopy of willow branches.

"I could never be frightened of you," she said, "unless I were to be frightened of myself, for your heart dwells so near to mine that I often cannot tell where one ends and the other begins."

"Then you have said what I feel far better than I ever could have," he said, and he turned to her then as they stood in a shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the silvery canopy of the willows while fireflies danced about them in a myriad of gently glowing sparks. "Do you remember this place?" He asked her, reaching out to clasp her hands.

"This is where we first kissed," she said, breathless.

"It is," he said. Then he produced a black box from his pocket with rather quick efficiency, so quickly that it was almost as though he feared he would lose his nerve, and removed the lid before Galadriel had even a moment to get her thoughts straight. Nestled inside was a square cut sapphire the size of an egg threaded on a silver chain. He had been right to stand in the moonlight, it paid absolute tribute to the stone, highlighting its carefully crafted facets, illuminating tints as pale as the sky, as deep as the ocean. The setting was of silver that curled about the gem like small leaves and was scattered with tiny diamonds. So flawless was the jewel itself that she could see the stars reflected in its perfect azure depths, as if he held in his hands a prism of Doriath's midnight sky.

"Give me your hand once more in courtship and this time I swear that we shall not be sundered, neither by duty, nor by loyalties, nor by Morgoth himself and let it be so until the end of days," he said, looking into her eyes.

She could hardly speak, for she wanted to fly into his arms that very instant, but she managed to say, "and what would you require of me this time?"

"Everything," he whispered.

"And what shall I receive in return?" She asked.

"Everything," he told her.

They stood in that great, resounding, swelling silence for a moment while her heart beat faster and faster as his eyes met her own and she knew that when he kissed her, and forever wed his love to hers, that Artanis, that Nerwen, would cease to exist, that the incarnation would be complete and she would be Galadriel completely and entirely and eternally. So she waited just a moment longer, remembering, before she let go of the line and that ship of the past floated pilotless out to sea, never to return.

"Yes," she said.

Then he kissed her. And at the touch of his lips on hers she blossomed for him like the sun parting the clouds in a blaze of glory. He took her into his arms, his mouth on hers and he kissed her gently, carefully, threading his hands through her hair, but it wasn't gentleness that she wanted now, not after all this time, and she knotted her fists in his tunic, pulling him hard against her and the whole forest seemed to swell with light around them as the stars stirred in song above. With his hands he cupped her face, pulling her as tight against him as he was able, and yet it seemed not close enough; as though there was still some closeness that lay out of reach and he desired it beyond desiring.

"If this is a dream," she whispered against his lips, eyes tight closed against the brilliance of the stars, and against the world, and against everything, "then promise me that I shall never wake."

"It is no dream," he said and he kissed her again, long and hard, as if he wished to rob her of breath. The power of it burned across his mind like the white hot light of a sunrise searing the edge of the sky, and he felt as though he was soaring out across the open sea and over the trees, and the mountains, great canyons and rolling plains, and looking down he could see the tiny flecks of white that were ships upon the water, all of it held in the glass vessel of the world filled with beauty, and goodness, and earth, and sky with water pouring over the rim unto oblivion. Nothing would ever be the same again, only now that did not frighten him.

And then, slowly, slowly, like a feather floating down to the forest floor so did they come down into gentleness and she said once more, "my answer is yes; yes, a thousand times yes." And he cradled her head against his.

"You have my love, Galadriel," he said, pulling back so that he could look at her, "unto eternity."

"And you have mine," she told him. Then they stood, just drinking in the sight of one another for a long while, content in their hard-won and long awaited happiness.

"Let it not be long until the day that we are wed," she implored him then, "for I grow impatient with longing for you. What bond we have already I would soon see completed and fulfilled."

"And I wish for the same," he told her. Then he reached up and clasped the jewel about her neck and it shone so that it seemed almost that she bore a facet of the midnight sky upon her breast. They began to walk then along the brook, hand in hand, and Celeborn said, "when I look at you this night I understand well what thoughts Thingol must have had as he gazed upon Melian in Nan Elmoth for the first time."

"Noble thoughts I hope," Galadriel said.

"Mostly," Celeborn replied with a grin, "though not all perhaps."

"You scoundrel," she whispered, elbowing him.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," he said, suddenly sounding a bit nervous. "I've never…I've never given anyone a jewel before. I hoped that…well…it rather reminded me of the night sky of Doriath is all, and I could think of no treasure greater than that to give to you."

"It is very beautiful," Galadriel said, smiling down at the sapphire that rested upon her breast. "And I do love it. I mean to cherish it for all eternity."

"I do not know what you would like to do about living arrangements," Celeborn said, ever practical even in romance, and Galadriel laughed at his audacity.

"Let us wait until we are betrothed," she said, "for though my desire for you is great, I would not wish to cause a stir in this city or any sort of disruption in this kingdom as we did of old. And I am rather enjoying living on my own for once. Besides," she said with a grin, "I believe that it would create far too much stress for dear Thingol. He might drive himself mad with worry that you would follow in Galathil's footsteps by marrying me in secret and then neglecting to tell him about it until I was carrying your child."

"Ah, yes, I can almost hear him threatening my life now," Celeborn said with a laugh.

"Most of all," Galadriel said, "I rather fear I would soon find myself in Inwen's predicament."

"Yes," Celeborn said with a grin, "I believe you would. Very well then, when we are betrothed you are welcome to share my rooms…or if you prefer I could share yours."

"Yours are far nicer," she said with a laugh and they kissed once more. "But just because I am choosing to live on my own for now does not mean that you are not welcome in my bed on occasion," she whispered into his ear. "Else I shall spend all of my days restless, longing for the touch of your hand." She grinned and Celeborn swallowed hard, his hands moving to grip her hips and pull her tight against him once more.

"It has been far too long," he breathed against her neck, losing the better part of his sense, his lips finding purchase there, and Galadriel playfully pushed him away.

"Yes," she said, "I can feel that that is the case."

"Tonight…" Celeborn managed to stammer out as he fought with his body for control of his mind. "Come to my bed this day. Stay with me."

Galadriel made no promises but merely smiled and said, "we must tell Finrod that I have accepted. He will be ecstatic with joy, I am sure."

"Of course," Celeborn said. The thought of how Finrod would have steam billowing out of his ears if he knew what he was most ardently desiring to do to his sister was enough to return Celeborn to sobriety.

"And perhaps, if we have a child soon then he or she could play with Orodreth's new son, Gil-Galad, and with Inwen and Galathil's child as well."

"I see you are quite ready to get down to business," Celeborn said with a laugh.

"Well you did make me wait an intolerably long time," Galadriel complained. "We ought not waste this peace."

"I should have named you Celegiel, the hasty maiden," Celeborn said, grinning.

"I hate the sound of it," Galadriel laughed.

"You used to hate 'Galadriel' too, remember?" He asked her.

"Nonsense," Galadriel said. "I always loved that name."

"You most certainly did not!" Celeborn scoffed. "You were always upset with me whenever I used it."

"I was just being coy!" Galadriel protested and Celeborn let out a long and loud laugh.

"Wargshit, Galadriel," he said. "You hated it."

"Wargshit you say! Ha!" She turned to him, eagerly digging her fingers into his sides as he tried futilely to bat her probing hands away. "I see your proper princeliness lasted all of a couple of hours before your lowbrow Sindarin slurs began to crop up again!"

"Stop it! Stop it!" He pleaded.

"Kiss me and I will," she demanded. He was only too happy to oblige her and yet, as their kiss deepened and threatened to draw them into dubious physical territory a strange sound came to their ears that caused them to break apart – the sound of weeping.

"You hear it too?" Celeborn whispered and Galadriel nodded, her brow furrowed in confusion. Slowly, hand in hand, they crept through the forest until the willows gave way to beeches and, presently, they happened upon a glade where moonlight filtered down through the forest canopy and the sound of nightingales singing a low, mournful tune could be heard. There, in the center of the glade sat Luthien, her head buried in her hands, weeping as though her heart had been torn in two.

Celeborn started in surprise, drawing his curved knife from its place at his back and Galadriel was surprised to see that he had been carrying it, even wearing all his finery, even within the safety of the girdle, of the capital city. She was reminded once more of how little the Sindar trusted, and how privileged she was to have their trust. Celeborn looked about angrily with a hunter's gaze, as though he feared some wild animal might have hurt his cousin, but Galadriel was quick to sense that this was no physical wound that Luthien had endured, but one of the heart, and so she put her arm upon Celeborn's and bid him sheathe his knife.

"Go," she said, "and I will speak with her, for something tells me that this is a matter that ought to be discussed between women." Celeborn nodded but looked reluctant to leave her side and so Galadriel said, "I will join you later. Wait for me in my rooms." He nodded and, quietly, made his way back to Menegroth's gates. Galadriel watched him leave with some sadness, but also with anticipation of the hours they would pass together shortly, and then turned back towards the clearing and her friend.

The grass moved in the gentle midnight breeze like waves upon a silver sea as she made her way towards Luthien and the very air itself seemed to glimmer in the moonbeams like an enchanted mist. The princess looked up with a tear-stained face as she approached and Galadriel paused, "do you want to be alone?" She asked and Luthien shook her head violently.

"No," she said. "That is just the problem. I am always so alone and I hate being alone."

"Oh Luthien," Galadriel said, drawing her friend into her arms and holding her tight. "I am so sorry. I have been so selfish, concerning myself only with Celeborn, and I have been a neglectful friend to you." They sat there in silent embrace until, at last, Luthien's tears stopped and she drew back from Galadriel to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"You were with him just now, weren't you?" Luthien asked and Galadriel nodded. Luthien's eyes darted to the jewel that lay upon her breast. "Did he give you that? He told me he had ordered something made for you."

"Yes," Galadriel said, reaching up to touch it, and Luthien looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.

"Valar forgive me," Luthien whispered, her voice weak and trembling. "How envious I am of you. All of my cousins shall soon be married and I alone of Doriath's heirs remain unwed, unloved."

"Luthien! You are loved!" Galadriel exclaimed, reaching out to grasp her friend's hands. "I love you, your cousins love you, your parents love you."

"You don't understand!" Luthien cried. "I want someone to love me as Celeborn loves you! Even…even in his pain, even in his anger he loved you still and not for a moment did he forget you. He loves you now with perfect clarity! He would risk anything for you, my father's wrath, his title and position at court, even his own life! There can be no keeping the two of you apart, just as the dawn is bound to follow the night. He would have come back to you eventually, even if it had taken him a thousand years and Morgoth and all of his minions had stood in his way. He will always come back to you, always. If he says it is not so then he is a liar and if you do not believe he would then you know him not. Is there none who would risk such a thing for me?" And it occurred to Galadriel that Luthien just might be very, very lonely, even surrounded constantly with friends as she was.

"I am sorry," Luthien said suddenly, seeming ashamed of her outburst, "that was wrong of me to say. He wanted to spend this special evening with you and now I've gone and ruined everything like I always do." She sniffed. "It is just that everyone always expects me to be so perfect, so flawless, so…so pure and noble and righteous. But I have the same sorts of thoughts that everyone else does, even if I don't say them." She squeezed Galadriel's hands before she released them, crossing her arms over her chest and striding away as though her heart had grown disquieted. She stopped a few paces away, staring up at the moon, and Galadriel came to stand beside her.

"You needn't apologize," Galadriel said. "I…I know what it is to be envious of the love of others. When I lived in Tirion I often yearned to have for myself what Angrod had with Eldalote, what Finrod had with Amarie. Instead," she sighed, "I was constantly bombarded with suitors who saw nothing in me save a fair face, who did not value me for the reasons that I valued myself. It made me feel so very low and, at the same time, I felt so very wretched for begrudging my brothers their happiness in love. Now, of course, I feel horrible about it, for Angrod and Finrod are sundered forever from the women they love. But it is a natural thought to have, I think, to want love for yourself when you see the joy that it brings others."

"So you…you aren't upset with me for having such terrible thoughts?" Luthien asked and Galadriel marveled that one who was so forgiving of others expected no forgiveness for herself.

"Of course not," Galadriel said. "But will you tell me what brought all of this on? Was it the wedding?"

"No," Luthien said. "Well, it was in a way I suppose. But, really…it was Dairon."

"Dairon?" Galadriel asked hesitantly, for it was something of which she and Luthien had never spoken, though she had known for a long while, for she had never been able to decipher whether Luthien had discerned his affections or not. And Luthien let out an angry sigh at the sound of his name, making as though to speak but falling silent once more out of frustration. Her eyes welled with tears, as though she would weep once more, but she managed to blink them away.

"Is he not your friend?" Galadriel asked, seeing the anger evident upon Luthien's countenance.

"And what is he? What is he indeed?" Luthien said. "He is my friend and my would be lover, my liberator and my jailer. He plays at friendship while secretly desiring more, he turns a blind eye when I do some things forbidden to me by my father and at other times he informs on me to him. He wants to be everything and so he is nothing. And all the while I am subject to the whims of others, not free to do as I choose. Father would lock me away if it would keep me safe and I do not know if Dairon would slip me the key or throw it away."

"It is his love for you that pains him. If you love him in return ought you not tell him?" Galadriel asked.

"He loves me not at all!" Luthien spat, turning a harsh gaze upon her friend. "For if he did then he would say something of it and not remain silent, worrying over my father's approval, or if he might lose favor at court, or even whether I would say yea or nay. He would withstand the wrath of anyone for my sake, even as Celeborn has done for you."

"And could you not say something to him?" Galadriel asked.

"Nay, for I do not well understand my own feelings for him," Luthien made reply. "I am always the one who must sacrifice," Luthien continued. "My father would protect me at the expense of all else, even my own happiness. I am a princess in name only for I am not free to act upon my own will or for the good of my people. Whenever he has some important mission, some matter of diplomacy, he sends Celeborn. And so I abide by my father's rules out of love for him, because I do not wish him to worry, I try to cause him as little trouble as possible, I can hardly ever go into the forest alone as I used to love to do, or climb trees or ride horses, not since Himlad. And father's rules please Dairon, for he too fears for my safety," She shook her raven-haired head. "I have sacrificed my happiness so that father and Dairon might rest assured that I am safe. Cannot Dairon make any sacrifice on my behalf?"

"That is what has brought me so very low this evening," she continued. "I saw you, and Celeborn, and Galathil, and Inwen so content in love. It caused me to have such horribly envious thoughts. In my sadness I thought…well I thought I might distract myself by asking Finrod if I might go visit the humans with him sometime, that perhaps I could be useful there. But of course my father said no and then it was all too much to take. I fled the palace, disgusted with myself for thinking such things about my friends, feeling as though I was a prisoner in my own palace, but Dairon pursued me and attempted to stop me from leaving. He said I shouldn't walk alone. As if he could offer me any protection! I am the daughter of a Maia and I can protect myself well enough!" The tears had begun to fall again and Luthien sniffed as Galadriel reached up to wipe them away.

"He follows me, you know," Luthien said, her voice tight with anger. "He follows me when I come here to dance. He thinks I don't know but I can always sense him…hiding, watching me." She shook her head as if to clear the memory from her mind.

"Ugh," Galadriel grimaced. "Celebrimbor used to do that to me too. He would creep along through the mellyrn of Lorien, hiding, sneaking, watching me as I danced there. There was always something about it that I found disturbing."

"Men," Luthien said with an angry look, shaking her head. "They're so infuriating."

"They really are," Galadriel said with a laugh and Luthien laughed too. "Luthien, I am sorry for having neglected our friendship. Let us do something fun together soon, whatever you like, and I will make sure that Dairon doesn't tag along," Galadriel told her.

"Thank you," Luthien said, squeezing her friend's hand and wiping away the remnants of tears. "I would like that very much." The friends smiled at each other and then Luthien said, "I will be quite alright, I assure you. You have made my heart feel so much lighter already and I think I shall return to the party but you, my friend, ought to be with your beloved. I could not bear being responsible for your sundering for even a moment longer."

*****

Celeborn watched Galadriel sleep, a grin on his face as he admired her pearly skin, lit with the rays of the sun, the golden hair that tumbled over her shoulder, the gentleness of her lovely face in sleep and he reached out to run his fingers down the elegant curve of her bare back.

"Your bed is far too small for the both of us," he murmured.

"Mmmm…" Galadriel smiled and stretched in the late evening sun, reluctant still to open her eyes, almost fearing that she would wake and find that it had all been a dream, but soon she felt Celeborn's strong arms wrap tightly around her, pulling her close against his chest where she could feel the beating of his heart, hear the rumble of his voice as he spoke again.

"Are you planning on waking up any time this evening?" He asked her and she smiled against the warmth of his chest, snuggling against him as closely as she was able. She felt him press a kiss to her forehead and her smile broadened.

"I thought we said we weren't going to do this," she said, opening her eyes at last to look into his deep green ones. He grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear, and she smiled, admiring the fall of his long silver hair over his broad shoulders, reaching out to graze his dusky skin with her fingertips.

"I seem to recall that you said it would be acceptable on occasion," he replied.

"So I did," she admitted with a broad grin.

"And besides," he said, "the renewal of our courtship is a very special occasion indeed, is it not? What is more, I did offer to leave and, if I remember correctly, it was you who urged me to stay here in your bed."

"Mmm, that is so," she grinned again, wrapping her arms around him.

"I have already forgotten why we agreed not to share rooms." Celeborn said, punctuating his words with kisses.

"Because," Galadriel said, "we did not want to cause trouble." Celeborn nipped at her lip. "And because," she said authoritatively, "Thingol would go mad with worry."

"With good reason," Celeborn interjected, tousling her hair. Galadriel laughed and pushed his hands away.

"And," she said, "because I don't want a smelly man junking my rooms up with animal pelts, and hunting trophies, and half-empty glasses…"

"I smell lovely," he said, burrowing his head in her shoulder and she could feel him grin against the skin there.

"You smell like sweat," she said.

"You made me sweat," he accused her, meeting her playful gaze. "And my chambers are immaculately clean, thank you very much."

"No," she wagged a protesting finger at him. "There was that time you were fletching arrows on the carpet, on the carpet, Celeborn, the carpet, and you left them to dry there and the glue got all stuck. And how long did that half-mounted deer's head sit in the corner before you finished it? And then there was…"

"I concede! I concede!" He cried, laughing.

"Although," Galadriel said, wrapping herself in his arms once more, "I rather fear that I will have a difficult time falling asleep without you beside me." Celeborn smiled at her wistfully and suddenly seemed to grow calmer, more serious.

"After you left for Nargothrond I had a terrible time sleeping," he murmured. "It was almost as though I had forgotten how without you there beside me."

"Mmm," she settled into his chest, looking into his eyes, "so did I. Sometimes at night I would imagine that you were there with me, that everything was well again, and at others I would wander out to the gates to look up at the stars, wondering if you were looking at them as well."

"Let us never be separated again," he whispered to her.

"Never again," she replied and he drew her into a gentle kiss that was as soft as spring rain. Then, propping himself up on his elbows, he bent over her so that he might gaze into her eyes and Galadriel smiled up at him, relishing in his love and in the feel of his embrace. "Show me," she said, "where you made the bond."

"Here," he said, tracing a line down his forearm with his finger, "and here," he traced a line down the center of his chest. Galadriel smiled up at him and took his wrist, pressing it against the place on her chest over her heart. "Like this?" She whispered and he nodded, feeling a strange tightness in his throat, an unfamiliar prickling and wetness in his eyes.

"Yes," he whispered, startled to hear how ragged his voice suddenly sounded and he swallowed, blinking.

"I treasure it," she said, "for now I carry you with me wherever I go," giving him a radiant smile and Celeborn gathered her more tightly in his arms, pulling her close to him, his face nestled in her hair and, for a moment, Galadriel thought that she felt the wetness of tears against her cheek but, in the next instant he was all smiles and energy and had caught her wrists in his hands, pinning her down to the bed as he sat atop her.

"Race you to the River Aros," he said before leaping out of bed.

"What?" Galadriel sat up, confused

"Come on Galadriel," he said, flashing her a grin as he pulled on his breeches. "You're already losing."

"Am not," she grumbled, sliding out of bed and throwing open her wardrobe to retrieve her own breeches.

"Are too."

"You can't be serious. That is nearly a day away by foot!" She exclaimed but Celeborn showed no signs of slowing down, pulling on a shirt and tunic as Galadriel did the same.

"Afraid you'll lose?" He asked and she scowled.

"What will Thingol say?" She asked and Celeborn shrugged.

"I don't know and, frankly, I am not concerned by it," Celeborn said. "I've spent my whole life waiting on this kingdom. I think it can wait on me for a change. Besides, there was a wedding yesterday. Nobody will be doing anything at all tonight and we have the world to ourselves."

Galadriel pulled on a leather jerkin and a pair of short boots, strapping her knives over her back. "What do I get if I win?" She asked him.

"Another night with me," he said with a smirk before darting barefoot out into the corridor and Galadriel followed as they bounded through the halls, nimble as rabbits. At last they blew past an extremely startled Mablung and burst out through the gates of the city, agile as a pair of deer, sprinting across the plains before Menegroth before they darted into the Forest of Region.

Celeborn leapt into the trees, making faster speed than Galadriel did upon the ground, but she did not quite trust her footing that high up, for she had not his experience with it. The sun of the late afternoon was peaceful and she relished in the dappled light that shone gently upon her face, enjoyed the softness of the grass and earth beneath her feet. She looked up to where he was leaping through the canopy, remembering the night she had first seen him walk that road in the sky and how amazed she had been by it. He looked down, catching her gaze, and they both smiled. Then he dropped down to the lower branches and suddenly she felt his strong hand on the back of her collar as he lifted her bodily into the trees.

"Trust them," he whispered, "and they will not lead you wrong." She looked down at her feet but he said, "don't," and so she took that first tentative step, and then the next and onwards and onwards until it felt as though she were flying, soaring through the treetops like an eagle with Celeborn at her side, his hand gentle upon the small of her back.

The evening sunlight faded and died in gasping bursts, like a candle whose wick had expired, and the deep indigo of night began to fill the heavens like an hourglass until Beleriand had fallen into night and the stars above twinkled like diamonds. In the darkness Galadriel worried for her footing and, for the briefest of moments, glanced down at her feet. In the next moment she was plummeting to the forest floor, her fall arrested only by Celeborn's arm tight about her waist.

"Don't doubt," he whispered, laughing into her neck before placing a kiss there and returning her to the branches of the trees once more. Galadriel's heart was still thundering in her chest from her near fall but then she rallied her confidence and began to dance over the branches again, allowing her feet to lead her. Gradually, Celeborn drew his hand away and then she was doing it all on her own.

By the time that day broke in burning flames of saffron light that glinted off the tall golden grasses, the Aros lay before them, a glistening ribbon of silver glinting in the early morning sun, and beyond it stretched the plains beyond which lay unseen the River Celon and, on its far bank, Nan Elmoth. They burst out of the forest, running now down the long grassy bank towards the river. Celeborn knew that he would win now for he had a significant lead, and it was with great joy that he plunged into the cool waters of the Aros.

He turned to see that Galadriel had reached the river's edge now and, without hesitation, she plunged into the water and into his open arms. He held her to him, feeling her tremble against him with willingness, the length of her body tight against him, her breasts firm against his chest, and he felt her heart beating against his own, the pulsing like a current that moved through him and filled his entire body with the song of summer. In his mind he saw the wild pinks and oranges, yellows and reds, of wildflowers in a forest glade, smelt the coolness of the mud of the riverbank, felt the freshness of the thundering water, heard the chirping of frogs in the early morning all around them.

"Does this mean that I cannot have you this evening?" She asked breathlessly and Celeborn grinned against her lips.

"Yes," he said, "because you have lost the race." Galadriel frowned at him and he could hardly keep from laughing. "But," he said, "as I am the victor, that means that I may do to you whatever I wish."

"I don't recall agreeing to that," Galadriel whispered, nipping at his bottom lip.

"And yet," he said, picking her up and carrying her to the riverbank, "you do not seem adverse to the idea."

"And what do you wish to do?" She asked him with a smile. He set her down on the riverbank, turning her about, and she saw there two great tree trunks growing up out of the ground, or rather, it almost appeared as though they were growing down into it, as though the roots were toes that were grasping the earth, digging into the mud of the riverbank.

"I would like you to meet my friend, Treebeard," Celeborn said and Galadriel looked up, up, up to see that these two trunks were really two legs and that a very tall tree towered over her, no, not a tree, an Onod whose body seemed to be made of gray-green bark that moved rather like skin more than wood. The lower portion of his long face was covered with a sweeping grey beard that was twiggy at the roots and thin and mossy at the ends, bearing a great resemblance to the business end of a broomstick. In his face were set two deep eyes that were surveying the two elves before him now, solemn and penetrating, but filled with great kindness. And, at long last the bark, or skin if one could call it that, of his face bent into a welcoming smile.

"Good morning to you, golden friend of silver tree," the ent said in a long, slow voice like the deep rumbling of an earthquake.

*****

The whole royal family was gathered in the houses of healing in varying states of dress, seeing as it was midday and they had all been asleep mere hours ago, before word had reached them that Inwen had gone into labor. Thingol wore a long nightshirt and a thick robe, his silver mane pulled back in a loose braid. Melian, who, it seemed, had managed to put on a proper gown, sat behind her husband, massaging his shoulders, and she smiled at Celeborn and Galadriel as they entered, looking out of breath, as if they had rushed there.

Venessiel and Oropher were both there, Oropher in breeches and a shirt and his wife in a nightdress and a long dressing gown. The prince was yawning continuously and moved to sit in a chair, leaning back against the wall. "You'll tip the chair over if you keep doing that," Venessiel admonished him, trying to get him to keep all four legs of the chair on the ground, but Oropher was impervious to his wife's scolding.

Luthien was bouncing on the balls of her feet and scurried forward to clasp Galadriel's hands. "Isn't it so very exciting?" She asked. "A new baby! The last one in our family was Oropher."

"It is!" Galadriel exclaimed, feeling the excitement welling within her. Galathil was leaning with his palms flat against the wall, sweating profusely through his nightshirt and doubling over in pain every few minutes.

"He says he can feel the pain through the bond," Luthien whispered into her friend's ear as Celeborn put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Ought you not be in there with your wife?" Celeborn asked softly but Galathil shook his head, breathing hard.

"Don't like blood," he said. "She says I'm making it worse." Inwen's screams of pain rent the air.

Presently, Madame Camaeneth, the chief healer, exited through the curtains and approached them all. Despite Inwen's war cries the chief healer seemed remarkably unperturbed and graced them all with a pleasant smile. "I am afraid the child is rather large," she said, "and the princess is having some difficulty, but things are proceeding normally and it should not be much longer now."

"I am glad to hear it," Thingol said with a grin as Galathil collapsed against the wall in agony.

The healer strode away and they could hear her speaking to Inwen from behind the curtain. "There now, you're doing splendidly. My first was difficult as well but it will be all over soon."

"One day it will be your turn," Melian said, turning to Galadriel. Thingol laughed loudly.

"Melian you will scare the poor girl! I beg you not to do so as I am most eagerly anticipating many more grandchildren." Galadriel only rolled her eyes and grinned.

"Well I certainly hope that it does not hurt that much when my time comes," she said in response to Inwen's shrieks. Galathil had sunk to the floor now, curled up in the fetal position as Celeborn stood over him laughing.

"One day it will be your turn," Galathil was hissing up angrily at his brother.

"Inwen is a good deal smaller than Galathil but Galadriel is nearly as tall as Celeborn," Venessiel said. "I should think she would have an easier pregnancy."

"I recall that mine was not very bad," Melian said.

"I too remember it being rather easy for you," Thingol said and Venessiel and Galadriel laughed.

"Well you are a Maia after all, Melian," Venessiel said. "It isn't quite fair."

"Have you and Oropher spoken about children?" Melian asked the minister of the treasury as she glanced over at the prince in question, who had fallen asleep in his chair.

"I think we are almost ready," Venessiel said. "We are planning on having them relatively soon, before this century is out I should think." Madam Camaeneth's voice filtered out from the curtain once more, interrupting their conversation.

"Take heart Inwen! This child will be a new prince or princess of Doriath!" She was crying in response to Inwen's groans of pain.

"Who on earth would have thought Galathil would be the first to have children," Thingol remarked with a grin.

"I only wish it would be out of me already! Curse Galathil and his overly-large head!" Inwen cried, and everyone there stifled laughter.

"Soon enough! You're almost there," Madam Camaeneth assured her and, all of a sudden Inwen's groans stopped and, in the next instant, the cry of an infant could be heard.

"The baby!" Luthien cried excitedly and everyone leapt to his or her feet, even Oropher who had only so recently been fast asleep. Galathil bolted over to the curtains, slipping inside.

"How wonderful!" Melian whispered, embracing her husband, who was grinning ear to ear. Celeborn had returned to Galadriel's side now, clasping her hands in his, his eyes alight with excitement.

"I am an uncle!" He exclaimed and Galadriel nodded, embracing him.

After a few long moments, Galathil emerged from the curtained area, tears of joy staining his face, cradling the baby gently in his arms as he stepped out into the Antechamber, where the royal family waited in anticipation. He held the babe gently, almost as though he was afraid he would break her, and the baby giggled and reached for her father's dark hair, tugging on it weakly. Madame Camaeneth walked at his side and Thingol gasped at the sight.

"Silver hair…" the king whispered in wonder, for indeed, there was a tuft of hair the color of the stars upon the baby's head and the child smiled and laughed. At that moment a change came over the king as he looked upon the babe so that it seemed to Galadriel that he looked almost as full of hope as he had when she had first arrived in Menegroth hundreds of years ago. Melian touched the king's arm, tenderness in her eyes, and Galadriel wondered if the queen had felt the change as well.

She felt Celeborn's hand upon the small of her back momentarily and knew that he had felt the same as her, that looking upon Nimloth he had wondered what their own children might look like and had felt the same longing that she felt now, as though her arms were unusually empty.

"A princess is given unto us. This is my daughter, Nimloth," Galathil said, a proud father now as he looked around at them all.

It was said in Doriath that a baby that smiles rather than cries will bring good fortune to her people and that a royal child with silver hair will turn the course of history and so Galadriel imagined that these thoughts must be running through the minds of all those gathered there while Galathil held his child and Madame Camaeneth spoke, saying; "This is a fortunate day among fortunate days." Yet at that moment Galadriel could not help but recall the silver hair of those slain in Alqualonde and her heart trembled in fear for this child.

"Perhaps the King would like to hold…" Madame Camaeneth began to suggest gently to Galathil but he looked up at Celeborn instead.

"No," he said, "first my brother," and he passed the child gently into Celeborn's arms. Galadriel looked first at the beaming smile upon Celeborn's face and then at the tiny face of the child, who reached out to grasp her finger, and she could not help but smile as the baby giggled. Her eyes were green, like Galathil's, and Celeborn's as well and, as Galadriel ran her fingers gently over the fluffy tuft of silver hair on the baby's head, she felt a strange thrill of excitement shoot through her at the thought that perhaps in a few more years they might be standing here holding their own child. He had felt it too and his eyes met hers before they both returned their attention to the baby.

"Hello Nimloth," Celeborn said.

**End Part II**


	27. And Melian Spoke

  
**And Melian Spoke**

Doriath: 27th Chapter

*****

"The Queen of Air and Darkness tilted back her head and laughed."

– Stephen R. Lawhead, Arthur

*****

**Author's note:** Part III! Let's do this! End of the First Age! Let's do this!

*****

"Daeradar! Daeradar!" Nimloth called, laughing, for this was what she called Thingol, although he was not her grandfather but her great granduncle. "Watch this! Watch what I can do!" And so saying, the child whistled to her pony, jumping a low hedge, and circling around to ride beside the king once more. Thingol applauded her efforts.

"Well done!" He cried, his face alight with joy. The birth of Nimloth had engendered hope in all of Doriath and, not least of all, in the heart of the king himself. With the coming of peace, Thingol's long winter had passed, giving way to a spring of the soul and with it, the frigidity that had hardened his heart thawed and with it the cloud that had hung over Doriath dispersed. These were peaceful days and that peace was augmented by the birth of the new princess, whose mischievous antics and cheerful smile were the delight of all.

The little princess was nigh seven years old now and filled with youthful exuberance. She had not the gentle, soft-spoken temperament of her mother, but rather, she took more after her father's side of the family, bold in both speech and spirit, and vigorous in body. What was more, she had inherited Galathil's gift for music and her parents watched with doting glances as she sang.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

how I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky."

"Oh!" She cried laughing, breathless. "I have forgotten the rest! Help me uncle!" She called to Celeborn, who had been riding beside Melian and Galadriel. He spurred his horse now so that he might ride beside Thingol and Nimloth and he sang the second verse of the song.

"When the blazing sun is gone,

when he nothing shines upon,

then you show your little light,

twinkle, twinkle, all the night."

"Oh yes, now I remember!" Nimloth laughed. "Let us sing the third verse together uncle please?"

"Very well meleth," Celeborn replied with a smile and they sang together then, with Galathil joining in as well and Galadriel thought that, although her beloved often disparaged his own efforts at song, he had a very fine voice indeed.

"Then the traveller in the dark,

thanks you for your tiny spark,

he could not see which way to go,

if you did not twinkle so!"

Having finished their song, Nimoth laughed with glee and bent down to pat her pony on the neck.

"We are travellers aren't we Adar?" She called to Galathil.

"We are indeed dearest," he replied.

"Are we almost there yet?" Nimloth asked. "We have been traveling for many days and I want to see the beach. Nana said that there are seals there and I have never seen a seal before. I heard they look like great sausages!" The royal party was traveling now to the Falas so that the king might visit with Cirdan, his friend and kinsman, whom he had not seen in a very long while. Ordinarily such a trip might have been very dangerous, yet with the many long years of peace it was at last possible again. With him went Melian, and also the Princes Celeborn and Galathil, along with Inwen, and their daughter. They took many of their people in their retinue, one of whom was Galadriel. But Luthien, the crown princess, did not go with them, for she had finally gotten her dearest wish of all; inspired perhaps by the peace, her father had appointed her queen regent of Menegroth in his absence.

"I promise you that you shall see plenty of seals!" Galathil told his daughter. "And you shall see many more things besides: colorful fish, seabirds, mermaids…"

"Mermaids," the princess gasped, wide-eyed, "what are those?"

"Meleth nin," Inwen chided, giving her husband a disapproving look, "you ought not fill her head with tall tales."

"It is true," Galathil told his wide-eyed daughter, ignoring his wife's admonition. "There are mermaids and they are like elves atop, the most beautiful elves you have ever seen, but below their waists they have long tails like fish! And they are very kind and love children most of all."

"Really?" A broad grin spread across the girl's face. "How very fantastic! I want to see one!"

"Maybe you will if you are lucky," Galathil told her while Inwen rolled her eyes and laughed. "Indeed, there may even be a mermaid amongst us now, for there are some who can hide their tails away and walk about like elves." Nimloth's mouth fell open in awe, completely entranced by her father's words, and she turned her horse around so that she might survey the traveling party.

"I know," she said to Galathil in complete earnestness. "It must be the Lady Galadriel, for she is the most beautiful elf ever! Is she?"

"I don't know," Galathil said. "Let us ask your uncle Celeborn, for he is the wisest of elves and if any can say then it shall certainly be he!"

"Is it true uncle Celeborn?" Nimloth asked, turning to him. "Is the Lady Galadriel a mermaid?" And she had cupped one hand about her mouth as if to whisper but, having only the tact of a child, which is to say she had hardly any tact at all, she spoke in a voice loud enough that all could hear and there was much laughter in the traveling party.

"I do not know," Celeborn said, furrowing his brow in mock concentration, "for I known nothing of the mysterious ways of discerning mermaids from elven women."

"Really? I had thought you were well-versed in Lady Galadriel's legs and tail," Galathil whispered to his brother and Celeborn gave him a dangerous look, but the implications of her father's words were completely over Nimloth's head.

"Shall we go ask the Lady Galadriel herself?" Celeborn asked his niece and she nodded solemnly, as though they were embarking upon some monumental task.

"Yes," she said, seriously, "but I wish to ride with you now."

"And why is that meleth?" Celeborn asked her.

"The Lady Galadriel is scary," Nimloth whispered, eyes wide, "Oropher says she is a sorceress," and Celeborn laughed.

"Oh she isn't that terribly scary once you get to know her," Celeborn said with a reassuring smile, "and I can certainly assure you that she is not a sorceress." Nevertheless, he reached down to lift Nimloth onto his own horse and passed the reins of her pony to Galathil. He encouraged Nimloth to take hold of the pommel with both hands and he wrapped one of his arms around her to hold her steady, for it was a rather longer fall to the ground from his charger than from her pony.

They rode back then to Melian and her ladies, all of whom smiled at the approach of the beloved child, and came to ride beside Galadriel, who smiled, already knowing full well why they had come.

"Lady," Celeborn addressed her courteously with a polite nod of his head, "the princess has a question she would like to ask you."

"Why of course, what is it princess?" Galadriel asked, gracing the child with a radiant smile. But the silver-haired princess shook her head and shrank back into her uncle's chest, wide-eyed with fright.

"Go on Nimloth," Celeborn encouraged her. "If you don't ask you will never know." The child chewed her lip, turning the possibilities over in her mind and at last her curiosity won out.

"Are you a mermaid?" She whispered and Galadriel feigned surprise.

"Why…yes! How did you know?" She cried and the child's fear disappeared as quickly as dewdrops under the summer sun in her delight at having discovered a mermaid.

"Because Adar said mermaids are more beautiful than elves and you are so beautiful that I cannot believe you are an elf!" Nimloth cried in joy, laughing.

"Is that so?" Galadriel said, laughing as well. "Perhaps one day you might see my tail!"

"Oh please!" Nimloth gasped and then wriggled, turning about so that she could look up at her uncle.

"Uncle Celeborn, I wish to ride with Lady Galadriel now!" She exclaimed.

"But I thought you were afraid of her," Celeborn said with a smile and Nimloth shook her silver head in vehement denial.

"No, not anymore. Because Adar told me that mermaids are kind and love children!"

The joy that Cirdan felt upon welcoming relatives and friends whom he had not seen in many long years was perhaps somewhat outweighed by his confusion at being told by Nimloth immediately upon the royal party's arrival, that the Lady Galadriel was a mermaid. It was a tale she told any who would listen over the next few weeks as they attended parties and banquets and waded in the surf. Yet so great was her excitement that she grew exhausted quite early each morning and, hardly had the sun crested the horizon before her parents carried her off to bed.

In the dying of the evening's excitement, Galadriel took the opportunity to slip away to where she expected that her lover might be hiding. Exiting the main part of the palace and heading for the shore, she found herself in a magnificent pavilion. It was open to the air, a floor of white marble veined in glimmering silver upon which stood a myriad of alabaster pillars stretching up to a ceiling that resembled that of the bathhouses in Menegroth: pure white stone cut like lace so that the light of the moon shone down in magnificent patterns to the floor below. The spaces between the pillars were all hung with long, flowing curtains of silvery blue that rippled like the sea in the evening breeze. Galadriel closed her eyes and breathed in the salty smell of sea air before she began to pass through the pavilion, slipping past the curtains that billowed about her. It was then that she felt an arm curl around her waist and grinned in silent anticipation as Celeborn drew her into his arms.

"Seems I've caught a mermaid," he whispered as he grinned down at her.

"Mermaids run away if you don't kiss them often enough," Galadriel murmured as she smiled at him, feeling the warmth of him against her and the comforting feeling of his arms about her waist.

"Have I been remiss in my duties?" He asked her, laughing quietly. She nodded and he captured her lips in a long kiss that left her near breathless, moving one of his hands up to the back of her head, trying, it seemed, to pull her as close to him as possible.

"Something about you makes me feel so very wild," she gasped as his mouth moved to the delicate curve of her neck. "I wish things could be like they used to, when I shared your bed each day." She felt him laugh against the curve of her shoulder.

"I think we both know where that would end," he whispered.

"And why should we wait? Plenty of your people marry in such a fashion," She murmured, though she knew it was only the touch of his skin on hers that was making her say such things. "We have waited so very long, Celeborn, near 400 years since we first met. We have already been courting several years now. Why should we not be wed immediately?"

"So that I do not have to explain to Thingol why both of Galadhon's sons wed in secret," Celeborn replied.

Galadriel made a sound of discontent. "Then let us go to Thingol immediately," she said. "You know how impatient I am. Do you not wish to wed me?" She grinned, her eyes playful.

"You _know_ I wish to marry you," Celeborn growled. "Do not tempt me!" He made a halfhearted attempt to bat away her enticing hands.

"But I am enjoying it so very much," Galadriel laughed, tickling him now, and he yelped, pushing her hands away in earnest this time.

"I," he managed to capture her hands and hold her still at last, "would do right by you, Galadriel. I want to have a proper wedding, a wedding befitting you, with Finrod, and Aegnor, and Angrod, Orodreth, his wife and children, everyone there to bear witness."

"I don't need any of that," She grumbled. "Why do you have to be so noble now? I rather think that Galathil had the right idea after all."

"I would hesitate to call any of Galathil's ideas 'right,'" Celeborn laughed. "Come, walk with me," he said, pushing the curtains aside and walking out onto the shore. Galadriel moved to take the hand he had offered her but instead he brought it to her backside with a resounding smack and then went tearing off barefoot down the beach. Galadriel shrieked and went running after him.

The elves of the Falas kept the same nocturnal hours as their kinsmen in Doriath and so Melian and Thingol took the opportunity to walk on the balconies of Cirdan's elegant and expansive house so that they might see the beauty of the moon upon the ocean. Its light glimmered upon the surface of the sea and the sound of music and laughter filtered through the air from the party that they had just left as Melian approached her husband from behind, wrapping her arms about his broad shoulders and kissing his temple. She heard his soft laugh and moved to sit in the chair opposite him but he wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her down to sit across his lap.

"Meleth nin," he said softly, grinning and kissing her. "I have been thinking lately; why do we not have another child ourselves? Having a child in our family again reminds me of how much fun we had when our Luthien was young."

"Is that so?" Melian asked with a smile, tucking her husband's silver hair behind his ear. "Do you know that I have been thinking the same thing of late? Perhaps we ought to have another." Thingol squeezed her hand, his eyes, filled with happiness and satisfaction, looking out over the water below.

"And how long, do you think, before they have children of their own?" He asked, watching the two figures walking slowly upon the beach. Despite the darkness they were unmistakable with hair of silver and gold, as if the sun and moon themselves had come down to walk upon that strand.

"They will have very strange fates, both of them," Melian mused and then she laughed quietly to herself.

Thingol grinned and shook his silver head. "Look at how blissfully oblivious they are to the world. It is almost as though they cannot see anyone else but each other."

"Ah the follies of youth!" Melian whispered into his ear with a grin. "You do not object to the union?" She asked and Thingol laughed, shaking his head.

"Hardly," he replied. "These past few years I can hardly recall what worry feels like. Indeed, I have known only happiness."

"Indeed," Melian sighed contentedly. "That is so. And, now that peace has come there are so many elflings about Menegroth."

"200 years of peace…" Thingol mused, "and to think that I have Galadriel's cousins to thank for it. A most surprising state of affairs."

"Indeed," Melian said, pressing her head against her husband's. "At the moment, however, I would rather not think of politics."

Thingol laughed, wrapping her tightly in his arms. "Of course," he replied, "then in that case I think we ought to get up to some youthful follies ourselves."

*****

The days that they spent upon the beach were exceedingly difficult for Galadriel because Celeborn had taken to walking about without a shirt in the manner of the Falathrim, and his skin had become well-bronzed in the summer sun and its light slid across his tanned muscles, paying absolute tribute to his body. Galadriel tore her eyes away from him with some difficulty, feeling as though she were suddenly breathing more rapidly than usual. He seemed to have noticed and she could see a slow grin spreading across his face as she blushed and turned her head away. She almost suspected he was doing it on purpose to torment her.

"I found these to help us build our sand castle," Nimloth said with delight, plopping down beside Galadriel in the sand. In her cupped hands she held dozens of pearls. Indeed, the entire beach was full of them.

"Lovely!" Galadriel said. Nimloth giggled and helped her build the walls of the castle.

"I want to make it really big!" She said. "Like Menegroth!"

"Then we shall make it as big as you like!" Galadriel told her and the child grinned up at her in awe.

"Uncle Celeborn says you are from Aman," she said. "My Daernaneth is from Aman too."

"That's right," Galadriel replied, carefully crafting the parapet of their sand castle. "I was born in a city called Valinor."

"That's where the Valar live," Nimloth said with a grin, proud of herself for remembering her history lessons.

"That's right," Galadriel said. "And I have met all of them."

"Really?" Nimloth gasped in awe and the Noldorin lady nodded.

"What's it like?" Nimloth asked.

"It is a very large place," Galadriel told her, "and there are many different parts, but in the place that I was born the houses are all of beautiful white marble and the streets are paved in gold and crystal. There are fountains there as well filled with the clearest water that will refresh you completely the moment that but a drop touches your lips. But there are two other big cities as well."

"One is Alqualonde," the child said, "and I know because that is where father's people live. That is where the Teleri are."

"Indeed," Galadriel replied. "My mother is a Teler with hair just as silver as yours! And she is the princess of Alqualonde," she said. "I spent much time there in my childhood with my grandparents, for my daeradar is the king of Alqualonde, Olwe, who is Thingol's younger brother."

"Is it true that the houses are made with pearls?" Nimloth asked.

"Yes!" Galadriel said. "There are pearls bigger than your head! Thousands of them, and they can be hewn into great blocks with which to build all sorts of buildings. And the sand itself is as gold as a crown and filled with gemstones. If you were to pick up but a handful of sand then diamonds and sapphires, rubies and emeralds would fill your hands as well!" Nimloth giggled.

"Is your father from Valinor?" The child asked. "Is that why you were born there?"

"Well," said Galadriel, "partly he is. His mother is Indis, of the Vanyar, and the Vanyar live in Valinor. But his father is Finwe, the king of the Noldor, and Tirion is the city of the Noldor. All of the Vanyar have golden hair and, though my father is half Noldo, who are nearly all dark of hair, he inherited his mother's golden hair, as did I." Nimloth reached up to tug at Galadriel's golden hair, giggling. "So my father is from both Valinor and Tirion, where he lives now."

"Why does he live in Tirion now?" Nimloth asked. "Is it because of his father?"

"In a way," Galadriel said. "His father died tragically, fighting against Morgoth, and so now my father is the king of the Noldor and the king of the Noldor must live in Tirion."

"Is it a nice place?" Nimloth asked.

"I think so," Galadriel said. The city of Tirion is built on a great green hill called Tuna in a big valley called Calacirya, through which the sun shines. It is the biggest of all of the cities in the west."

"Bigger even than Menegroth?" Nimloth asked.

"I think they are probably about the same size," Galadriel told her.

"Is it made out of pearls too?" Nimloth asked her as she stuck pearls in the walls of their sand castle.

"No, but all of the walls and buildings are painted white so that they glitter in the sun and the stairs are all of crystal, clear as glass, and the sand in the streets is diamond dust. At the center of the city is a great tower with a silver lantern that can be seen all the way out at sea. And that is where my father lives now, at the base of that tower." And it was also, she thought, where Feanor had sworn his terrible oath, where she herself had stood yearning for glory. "There is a white tree there called Galathilion, made by Yavanna herself as a gift." Galadriel told her.

"That is like my Adar's name," Nimoth said with a smile.

"Indeed, it is," Galadriel said.

"Then you are a Vanya, and a Teler, and a Noldo mermaid," Nimloth said confidently.

"I am," Galadriel laughed.

"Are there a lot of mermaids in Aman?" Nimloth asked her.

"Hundred and hundreds," Galadriel told her, "and we just lounge about on the beach all day long!" Nimloth giggled.

"Will you ever go back?" She asked and Galadriel stopped building the castle suddenly, as if she had been punched in the gut.

"No, I don't think so," she said. "I have to stay here now." And she began to smooth the walls of the castle again.

"I'm sorry," Nimloth said softly, realizing that she had caused some harm, for she was very perceptive for a child, "I didn't mean to make you sad." And she reached out with one tiny hand to squeeze the golden-haired lady's.

"No, it's quite alright," Galadriel assured her.

"Would it make you feel better if I build the great tower of Tirion?" Nimloth asked her and Galadriel nodded.

"Yes," she said, "that might make me feel very happy indeed." And together they began to pile up the sand and sculpt the tower. Nimloth scurried away for a moment to grab a stick that had washed up on the beach and, planting it in the sand at the base of their partially finished tower, she declared it to be the white tree Galathilion.

"We can use my hair for the silver lamp," she said enthusiastically, "because it is silver, just like Daeradar's and Uncle Celeborn's." Galadriel looked up, but Celeborn was nowhere to be seen and she wondered where he had gone.

"That's a very clever idea," Galadriel praised the child and Nimloth glanced up at her furtively, as if she had something she wished to ask, but merely chewed her lip and turned her attention back towards building the tower as high as she could.

"What is it?" Galadriel asked her, laughing, and Nimloth glanced around in nervous excitement.

"If a Vanya and a Noldo can marry and a half Vanya half Noldo can marry a Teler," Nimloth said, "then why can't a Vanya, Noldo, Teler mermaid marry a Sinda?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Galadriel asked, perplexed by the child's logic.

"Well, your daeradar was a Noldo and your daernaneth is a Vanya and they got married. So your father is half Vanya and half Noldo and he married your mother, who is a Teler. So why can't you marry Uncle Celeborn?" Nimloth asked, with a tone in her voice as though it was the most obvious question in the world.

"Oh," said Galadriel, dumbstruck, nervous, for Nimloth was yet a child and knew her only as her Uncle Celeborn's 'friend,' and Galadriel feared that such a conversation might easily lead to other conversations: such as what courtship and marriage entailed, or even where elflings came from and Galadriel swallowed. "I am just your uncle's friend," she lied placatingly, but Nimloth looked up at her and sighed as though she knew a great something that Galadriel didn't.

"He would be a great fool if he did not love you you," Nimloth said. "For you are beautiful and kind and really clever too. You can do all sorts of things like weave and ride horses and hunt and make lembas and fight and dance and Adar says you can run really fast too. That's how all of the great love stories are," she told Galadriel. "Don't you know about the great love stories?"

"Indeed, I do know about them," Galadriel said with a relieved laugh, for it seemed that Nimloth had merely been fantasizing and had not, after all, been wondering about the making of elflings or of the details of marriage.

"He loves you," Nimloth said, "just like the heroes in the stories. He looks at you the way my Adar looks at my naneth, and the way that Daeradar looks at Daernaneth," Nimloth said solemnly.

"Maybe it is just his little secret then," Galadriel said, hoping to put the child off their trail.

"If Uncle Celeborn married you then you could be my auntie! And you could have a little girl as well, and she could be my friend and play with me and, oh, wouldn't it be so lovely?" Nimloth squealed excitedly but Galadriel only laughed nervously and attempted to divert the child's attention again.

"Are you ready to put the lantern on the tower now?" She asked Nimloth.

"Oh yes!" The little princess said, reaching up to pull a few strands of hair from her head and twisting them into a knot before tying them about the top of the tower. "Finished!" She exclaimed, stepping back to look at their work and laughing before dashing off across the sand. "Daeradar!" She called to Thingol. "Come look at what Lady Galadriel and I built!"

It was dawn now, the rising sun painting the calm ocean in shades of pink and gold and orange. The clouds above seemed like mere wisps of cotton and the cool sand below Galadriel's bare feet was white and very nearly iridescent, for pearls were so abundant upon the beaches of the Falas that she could look down and see then in the sand between her toes, glimmering in the light of the sunrise.

The hem of her thin, pale blue gown flowed behind her in the breeze and she stopped, looking out over the ocean, imagining that she could almost see that silver lamp upon Tuna at Tirion. Nimloth's words had burrowed themselves deep in her mind where they worked upon her now. She turned back towards the city of Falas to see that it was perfectly quiet and deserted, as if no one were there at all, for the Falathirim had gone to bed a little while before the sun had begun to crest the horizon.

Galadriel had tried to sleep as well but, restless, had at last risen from her bed to steal away to the beach, for Nimloth's words had brought back darker memories and there was something else, some foreboding working upon her heart now that she could not quiet. Whenever she looked at the sea she could not help but remember Aman and all of the terrible things that happened there. Yet, as abhorrent as the thought of returning to that place was to her, she wondered sometimes how her parents fared and the thought of her mother mourning after her children, of her father, a lonely king in a deserted city, brought tears to her eyes.

The back of her dress was cut low in the style of the Falathrim and she felt the gentle touch of a familiar hand upon the small of her back, a comforting hand, as if he had sensed her sadness. Turning, she found Celeborn, and he smiled at her as she glowed in the morning light.

"I was asleep," he said quietly, "until strange memories began to disturb my slumber, memories of a land far away."

"I am sorry for having woken you," she said, sniffing back the tears that had threatened to fall only a moment ago.

"You need not apologize," he said. "It was no bother." And he reached up, tucking a pin into her hair.

"What is this?" She asked, confused, reaching up to take it out so that she could look at it. Celeborn only laughed and now she could see why. It was an enamel hairpin shaped like a mermaid but it was the most lurid, garish thing that Galadriel had ever seen in her life. It looked very nearly as if a child had designed it, or else an extremely unskilled craftsman who had little concept of design, for the mermaid looked more like a flopping, rotund seal than a woman and the colors were a horrid cacophony of oranges, pinks, and pea-colored green.

Galadriel simply could not help herself and in the next moment she was laughing uncontrollably, laughing until tears leaked out the corners of her eyes and ran down the sides of her face. "Oh, oh!" She cried. "It is the finest favor that I have ever received from a suitor." Celeborn grinned.

"I fully expect that you cherish it along with all of those fine gifts, all of your other presents, your great pearl diadems, your ruby encrusted slippers, your gilded songbooks, all of the things your other suitors gave to you," he told her and the both of them laughed at the thought.

Galadriel tucked the pin back in her hair, beaming a radiant smile. It was hideous, truly hideous, hideous in such a way that it nearly brought an entirely new meaning to the word, but she wore it without thought, without care, she wore it proudly, and she never wanted to be without it. "Wherever did you find such a thing?" She asked him as they began to walk along the pearly strand hand in hand.

"I went down to the market the other day while you all were playing with Nimloth on the beach," he said. "I merely felt that I wanted a few moments to myself but, as I browsed the wares I happened to come across that and, well, what with Nimloth believing you are a mermaid and all, I simply could not resist."

"And the craftsman who made it," she queried, "were…were all of his wares…"

"They were each and every one abjectly, singularly, horrible," Celeborn laughed. "I think he knew it too. He was rather surprised that I wanted to purchase anything at all from him." Galadriel smiled. Finrod would laugh, she thought, if he knew that she prized this ugly thing over Celebrimbor's Elessar. And yet this gift made her heart glow in a way that the Elessar never had and never could.

"Everyone is asleep," Celeborn said as they continued their way down the beach, listening to the lapping of the waves on the shore and the crying of the gulls. The silence that followed was pleasant and at last Galadriel stopped, looking out across the ocean. He turned, looking back at her, watching as she crossed her arms over her chest, almost as if she had grown cold, and a strange expression crossed her face, one of distant memory. He watched her for a moment, before approaching, wrapping his arms around her and feeling her relax against his chest. She let out a deep sigh.

"When I found you here there were tears in your eyes," he said. "Do not be afraid to let them fall." But Galadriel did not weep, for with him by her side she felt comforted and, instead, she remained silent for a while before speaking.

"You asked me some weeks ago, when we first arrived here, whether I missed Aman, whether I wished to return, if I wanted to leave Middle Earth." She paused. "Do you know what I see when I look at the ocean?" She asked: a question for which she expected no answer.

"I remember all of the horrible things that passed in Aman. I remember how Morgoth slew my grandfather, how Ungoliant sucked the trees dry. And I stood in the square of Tirion, listening to Feanor's words, how he railed against the Valar, saying that Aman was our prison and we should be prisoners no longer."

"I recall the more horrible things he did: the slaying of my mother's kin at Alqualonde. I remember looking out over the ocean and seeing the burning of the ships at Losgar…" There was anger in her voice. "My cousin died in that fire," she said, "and I always thought that Feanor killed him intentionally, believing he had intended to return for us, though Maedhros would never say as much. But I always saw the truth in his eyes, and he would never speak of the words that had passed between him and his father."

"I know," he said gently, "I know that it still haunts you."

"I ought to have trusted myself and yet I did not." She shook her head. "I never liked him…the way he…" she shook her head again.

"You don't need to say it if you do not wish to," he assured her, not fully understanding what had brought on the torrent of words that poured forth, but she continued as if she were compelled to do so.

"He was never content to understand others; he had to control them…he tried to control me and I hated him for it, even as he despised me for resisting him. Yet sometimes I see the likeness of him in me. Promise me, Celeborn," she said, turning to face him, her eyes troubled, "promise me that you will never allow me to become like him."

He wanted to tell her that he knew she could never do such a thing, yet it would have been a lie, for they both knew that she bore seeds of the same spirit within her: the pride, the thirst for power. And so he said, "it is your choice in which direction you will grow. Plants allowed to run amuck, that grow as they will without tending will eventually choke out their own lives and die, but the same plants, if nurtured and tended to carefully, can grow into a beautiful garden."

His analogy brought a smile to her lips. "Will you be my gardener?" She asked him with a little laugh.

"If you stay here, in Middle Earth, then I most certainly shall," he said, his heart hammering in his chest, his throat dry.

"I will stay here," she said, turning in the circle of his arms to face him, "with you, all the days of my life, however many they might be."

He smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear and Galadriel laughed, stretching her arms over her head. "What are you doing tomorrow?" She asked, turning to him, a mischievous look in her eyes.

"I hadn't thought about it yet," he told her and they began to walk down the beach once more.

"Do you think that Cirdan would let us borrow a sailboat?" She asked him. "I'd like to go out if he would allow it. Could you ask him? We could take Nimloth."

"I suppose," Celeborn told her, glad to see that her sadness had faded away, leaving anticipation in its wake. Galadriel turned around to flash him a grin. Celeborn laughed as he caught a glimpse of that stupid hairpin. She was walking ahead of him now, sashaying along the beach, skipping nearly, kicking up little bits of sand as she went, stopping every now and then to peer into a tidepool, watching the minnows and tiny anemones there. That stupid hairpin bobbed along atop her golden head.

"Why, you are rather more quiet than usual aren't you, more solemn?" She asked without looking back and Celeborn, reasoning that this would be an opportune time to shock her, reached into his pocket. He had always thought he would feel nervous but, strangely enough, he did not.

"I was not, in fact, asleep before I came out here. Rather, I was trying to think of how best to ask you something," he said with a smile and Galadriel laughed, turning towards him with dancing eyes.

"And what would that…" but the words seemed to evaporate from her mouth as she found that he stood there, holding two silver rings in the palm of his hand.

He was pleased to see the shock on her face. It left her gaping like a fish and he began to laugh at her complete loss for words, unable to restrain himself.

"Th…th…that was not the question I thought you were going to ask," she stammered, at a loss for words.

"That was not the answer I was hoping for," Celeborn said, but his shoulders shook with mirth just barely contained as he watched while Galadriel struggled to get her mind and her mouth working again.

"Are…are you being serious?" She asked him. "This had better not be some trick or joke, Celeborn."

"As serious as I am able," he replied.

"Well then," Galadriel raised an eyebrow and gave him an exceedingly haughty look, "let me have a look at them," and she slowly approached, her nose in the air.

"Torturing me by making me wait?" Celeborn asked before he snapped his hand shut and went tearing down the beach at a run. He could hear her cry of rage.

"Celeborn give them to me!" She cried, chasing him down the beach.

"You haven't given me your answer yet!" He shouted, turning back to see that she was gaining on him.

"You haven't asked me anything yet!" She shouted back and then she collided into him as he stopped short, the rings flying into the air, sparkling against the rising sun for a moment before they disappeared into the shallows and Galadriel shrieked. It only took her a matter of seconds to fish them out and then she pushed them back into his hands.

"Go on!" She urged him, trembling with anticipation.

"And what?" He asked her.

"You know what! You are enjoying tormenting me!" She cried and Celeborn nearly doubled over in laughter. "Ask me!" She urged him. "Ask me properly."

"I never took you for one to stand on ceremony," Celeborn teased. "In fact, I seem to recall that only a few days prior you begged me to take you to my bed and have my way with you while I argued with you that we ought to wait and have a proper wedding."

"I may not be a woman who cares very much for feminine things," Galadriel said, shaking a finger in his face. "But I will have you know that I do care about this very much and I will have you do it properly."

"And how is that?" Celeborn asked her with a grin.

"You're supposed to take a knee," she instructed but, when he did as she had instructed, it seemed so incongruous with his character that she could hold the laughter in no longer.

"Oh no, oh no, stand up again. It is too absurd," she said, gasping for air. Celeborn stood and then, while she was still struggling to recover from laughter, he picked her up, wrapping his arms around her. She pressed her forehead against his, his hands going to either side of his face, their eyes meeting as they grinned at each other.

"Galadriel?" Celeborn whispered.

"What is it?" She whispered back.

"I have a question for you," he whispered.

"I'm listening," she replied. He spun them in a circle.

"Will you marry me?" He asked, smiling, and she nodded against his forehead.

"Yes," she said. They kissed.

"Say it again," he implored her.

"Yes," she whispered, grinning against his mouth.

"Once more," he urged.

"A thousand times yes," she said and, with trembling fingers, they took the rings, sliding them onto one another's fingers, their faces lit with joy.

"You are extraordinarily wonderful," he whispered, "and I love you so very much," and she must have heard those words a thousand times from a thousand different men but when Celeborn said them her heart leapt. Words seemed too much for the moment and so Celeborn merely drew her tight against him, pressing her close, and she relished in the warmth of him.

"Soon," she said, tilting her chin up so she could look at him, "promise me that it shall be soon."

"I will speak to Thingol this very evening," Celeborn said, "and have the betrothal announced upon our return to Menegroth."

"Well," said Thingol upon opening his door, looking not nearly as surprised as they had thought to find him. Only a few moments prior Melian had, with great excitement, been giving him a running commentary of the proposal on the beach that they had been observing from their window. "Have you done it at last?" The king ushered them into the room, where the light of the morning sun glowed through panes of colored glass. Some of the windows were open and the breeze of the evening sea filtered in. Galadriel and Celeborn seated themselves across from Melian, who was wearing a long dressing gown and was brushing her hair. She smiled.

"Clearly they have," she said, "look at their hands, meleth nin." And Thingol glanced at the silver bands that rested upon their fingers, a grin spreading across his face as he took a seat beside his wife.

"Uncle, with your permission, we ask leave to marry," Celeborn said and Thingol and Melian smiled all the more at his words.

"I am happy to grant it," Thingol said and the two newly betrothed elves smiled at one another, clasping hands.

"We should like the betrothal announced immediately upon our return to Menegroth," Galadriel said, looking very hopeful, and Thingol laughed.

"Oh, I don't know," the King said. "They have taken their sweet time, haven't they meleth nin?" He turned to Melian.

"They have indeed," Melian said, "nearly four centuries."

"Considering that, another century should not be too much of a burden should it?" Thingol asked and Melian nodded.

"I would say they should be able to weather that easily," she said. Celeborn and Galadriel were sitting, open-mouthed, looking quite indignant.

"But…" Celeborn stammered.

"You can't…" Galadriel stammered and the King and Queen burst into laughter.

"Of course not," Thingol laughed. "It shall be as you have said. We shall be very happy to announce your betrothal upon our return. You must write to Felagund, Galadriel, and invite him to visit so that the betrothal ceremony can be done properly."

"I shall," Galadriel nodded.

"Have you decided on when you will be married?" Melian asked, looking very excited. "I am sure Luthien will be most pleased. She will want to help you with everything, Galadriel."

"As soon as possible," Celeborn said, "a year after the betrothal." Thingol nodded.

"Very well," he said, but he was interrupted by the door bursting open to admit a small, silver-haired, whirlwind of energy known as Nimloth.

"Nimloth! That is rude!" They could hear Inwen calling. "You must knock and ask permission before you enter!" But Nimloth heeded her mother's words not at all and bounded about the room.

"Daeradar, Daernaneth!" She cried, embracing Thingol and Melian. The King and Queen laughed and Thingol picked up the child, bouncing her on his knee, but Nimloth's attention was soon drawn elsewhere as she noticed that Galadriel and Celeborn were there as well and that there were silver rings upon their fingers.

"Oh!" Her eyes grew as round as her open mouth. "I knew it! I knew it!" She squirmed free of Thingol's grasp and tumbled to the ground, scooting across the floor to where her uncle sat.

"I knew it," said Nimloth, eyeing them crossly, looking up at Celeborn and Galadriel, "I knew they loved each other." And Galathil snorted in laughter at his daughter's words as he and his wife entered the room.

"What is it, Nimloth?" He asked, bending to pick up his child and swing her about in a circle.

"Uncle Celeborn and the mermaid are liars," Nimloth whispered to her father. "They said they were just friends but now they're engaged. I knew they loved each other!" She crowed again in victory and her father laughed.

"Is that so?" Galathil asked, turning towards his brother hopefully. "Congratulations!" He cried and, with Nimloth balanced on one hip, embraced Celeborn as Inwen, exclaiming her delight, embraced Galadriel. "Are you certain that you have waited long enough?" He teased his brother.

"I suppose some of us wait longer than others," he replied and Galathil elbowed him in response.

"What does that mean?" Nimloth asked.

"Nothing, dearest," Galathil told her, inspiring laughter from the others gathered there.

"Will I have cousins to play with soon?" Nimloth asked.

"Perhaps you shall," Inwen said with a nod and a smile.

"Nimloth," Galadriel said, moving forward to take the girl from her father. The child reached eagerly for Galadriel and played with her golden hair as she held her. "Celeborn and I were thinking you might like to go out in a sailboat this afternoon with us if that is agreeable with your parents." Nimloth squirmed in delight.

"Yes," she said, nodding her head and looking towards Inwen.

"You must be very careful," the healer said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And you must obey everything that Celeborn and Galadriel tell you to do. Do you think you can do that?" The child nodded once more.

"Then I suppose it is alright," Galathil said and, moments later, Nimloth was sitting on Celeborn's shoulders, using his hair as reins, and urging him to gallop down the hall. Galadriel laughed, following behind. They managed to find Cirdan at last, sitting down on the docks, smoking a pipe and cleaning fish.

"Nimloth!" The mariner cried, taking the pipe from his mouth as they approached. "Come to help me clean these fish have you?" Nimloth shook her head violently.

"No!" She shouted. "I don't like stinky fish!" Cirdan laughed.

"We wanted to take her out in a sailboat if that is alright," Celeborn said with a grin and Cirdan laughed again.

"Very well," he said. "I see no problem with that. You are a capable pilot, the sea is quite calm today, and the tide does not pose a problem. I would imagine that Lady Galadriel is a passable pilot too by virtue of her Telerin blood," he smiled at Galadriel. "Take my boat, for she is the most seaworthy and do be sure to watch Nimloth closely. Elflings are not very accustomed to the roll and pitch of seacraft, in my experience."

"Of course," Celeborn replied with a bow. "You have my thanks."

"Lady Galadriel is going to put on her tail and swim!" Nimloth said, bending forward to whisper into Cirdan's ear from her perch on Celeborn's shoulders.

"Is that so?" Cirdan asked with a great booming laugh. "Well, that will be most impressive I should think!" And with that they were off, tumbling into Cirdan's boat, a trim little craft built of expertly hewn cedar with crisp white sails.

There was a pleasant breeze as they sailed out across the water and, while Celeborn manned the rudder, Galadriel held Nimloth as she looked over the edge of the boat at the colorful fish that swam about them.

"I'm a little fish,

I like to swim.

You can't catch me,

Cause I have fins."

Nimloth was singing to herself, laughing and trailing her fingers in the water as Galadriel kept a tight grip about her waist. She looked up to where Celeborn stood, his hand on the mast, looking out over the water as the wind caused his silver hair to stream like a banner behind him.

"Do you think our children will look like her?" Galadriel asked him in Telerin, which she had been teaching him lately. Celeborn turned to look at her with a grin on his face.

"I hope so," he said and Galadriel smiled.

"Do you want a boy or a girl?" She asked.

"A girl, I think," Celeborn said, "like Nimloth, like Melian, like Luthien, like you, although I am sure I would love a boy equally as well."

"Well then perhaps we shall have one of each," Galadriel said. "And what would you name our girl, were we to be given one by Illuvatar?" Celeborn laughed as he adjusted the sail.

"I had not thought of that," he said. "I suppose something with both of our names perhaps." He thought for a while and then said, "Celebrian."

"A gift crowned in silver, if I understand the meaning correctly," Galadriel said. Celeborn nodded with a smile. "It is beautiful," she told him. "But you had better hope she has your hair or the name will not fit." Celeborn laughed.

"I may not have your prescience," he said, "but I do believe she shall." Galadriel smiled and Nimloth twisted around in her grasp.

"What language is that?" The little princess asked.

"It is Telerin, my love," Galadriel told her, "the language of my mother and of the Teleri of Alqualonde."

"Oh," Nimoth said with the air of one who was very knowledgeable about such things, and Galadriel and Celeborn both laughed. "I want to see you sail the boat," Nimloth said to Galadriel then.

"Very well," Galadriel said, passing the child off to her uncle, who sat, holding her in his lap as she watched the Noldorin lady standing at the rudder with a sense of awe. Galadriel closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sea breeze in her hair, and she felt Celeborn wrap his free arm about her waist, pressing a kiss to her lips as Nimloth protested that this was yucky. With a laugh, the prince resumed his seat and Galadriel unfurled the sail even further, grinning as they picked up speed and swept out across the water.

The next thing she remembered was waking in the bottom of the boat, Celeborn shaking her shoulders, and Nimloth looking near panicked with worry. "You fell!" Celeborn said, his face concerned. "Is something the matter? What have you seen?" But Galadriel sat up shakily. Celeborn had furled the sails and the boat sat rocking now on the waves.

"I…" she searched her memory for some sign of what had happened but her mind seemed curiously blank. "I do not know," she said, pressing a hand to her head where there was still a sharp, shooting pain. "It was probably nothing. Maybe…maybe it was the heat of the day." Celeborn furrowed his brow.

"I am taking us back to shore," he said.

"Celeborn, that is unnecessary," Galadriel protested. "There is no need to ruin a perfectly good afternoon."

"I know well enough to trust your visions," he murmured so that Nimloth would not hear and Galadriel looked into his eyes, seeing the concern there. She nodded, taking a seat in the bow and pulling Nimloth onto her lap. The child, in her innocence, seemed to have forgotten that anything was wrong at all and was merrily singing her fishing songs again, but a dark foreboding tugged at Galadriel's heart. Celeborn was right, something was wrong; she knew it.

It was nearly evening by the time that they returned and, as they made their approach to the quay, they could see that something was very wrong indeed, for there were elves running all about, bearing torches, a great commotion, and they could even see that there were horses saddled and waiting.

"Galadriel! Celeborn! Thank the Valar that you have returned!" Thingol was running down the docks towards them as they moored the boat. "Celeborn," he thrust a pile of clothes and armor into his nephew's arms as they clambered up onto the quay, "put this on immediately." Wordlessly, Celeborn obeyed, pulling on the suede jerkin over his shirt and buckling on his leather armor and his axe, quiver, and knives.

Galadriel lifted Nimloth onto the dock before climbing ashore herself and the child, sensing that something was very amiss, ran forward to cling to Thingol's leg. "What has happened?" Galadriel asked and Thingol looked very grim.

"Fingolfin has fallen in combat with Morgoth himself and the siege of Angbad has been broken," Thingol said. "The peace has ended and war has come, for the last time perhaps. I…" Thingol paused, "I regret to inform you that Angrod and Aegnor perished in the battle. I am…so very sorry."

"No…" the word was a strangled gasp and Galadriel crumpled to the quay as a strange sound escaped her, somewhere between a groan and a cry, a sound of immense grief. She was trembling violently, unable to understand what had happened, not wanting to understand it, so terrible was the pain. Cirdan had arrived but Galadriel hardly noticed.

"Cirdan," Thingol said, turning to his kinsman, "we must return to Menegroth with all haste but we did not anticipate this. It may well be that there are already orcs swarming over Beleriand."

"You may take a contingent of my soldiers with you of course," Cirdan said, his eyes as intense as Thingol's. "Or perhaps by boat…"

"It would take too long to sail against the current up the Sirion," Thingol said. "We must go with all haste, even if it is by the more dangerous route." Cirdan ran off to prepare the guards and Thingol moved to kneel before Galadriel. She was not crying, for her grief was beyond tears but she was shaking instead, caught up in a violent vision, and Celeborn was at her side yet all his efforts seemed to have no effect on her. The king took her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"Galadriel," Thingol whispered to her with a firm voice, "Galadriel." But she was nonresponsive and, with haste, he took her face in his hands forcing her blank eyes to look at him. "Galadriel," he said firmly, "listen to me. Do you want to hurt Morgoth, to really hurt him?" Fire flashed in the king's eyes and Galadriel nodded numbly. "Good," Thingol said, "then you must not give up, but I need you to come with me now. We must return to Menegroth. Can you do that?"

"Yes, yes, I can," she said, and her voice was stronger now as she rose with Celeborn's help.

"Celeborn," the king said, turning to his nephew, "she needs your protection now." And the prince nodded solemnly. Within the hour the hooves of their horses were pounding across the plain, bringing them slowly closer to Menegroth and, more importantly, to the girdle. Those who were unarmed rode in the center, Galathil and Inwen with Nimloth on her horse, clutched tightly to her, Melian's handmaidens, Galadriel. The soldiers, those they had brought with them from Menegroth and those Cirdan had sent with them, circled around the group, ever watchful.

Despite the fact that they had gone to the Falas in peace, they had not come unarmed nor unarmored, for Thingol's people trusted no peace fully and went not out of the girdle of Melian unprotected. They would not stop, Celeborn knew, not until they were within Doriath, but at the very fastest they might be able to make that trek in three days, however, there were civilians with them who would not be able to keep such a vigorous pace for so long. They rode all through the night and into the day without stopping except for a few very brief breaks and, as they traveled, the prince could not keep his fingers from reflexively twitching towards his axe at every sudden movement, for there was a dark foreboding in the air and he doubted that they would reach the safety of Doriath without encountering orcs, or something worse.

And, just as he had thought, their luck did not hold. "In the east," Thingol said, with a dark look, and Celeborn turned to where the king was looking to see, not so very far away, to see what looked like a swarm of black ants crawling over the earth. And the Sinda wrinkled his nose in disgust, for already the stench of orcs had been carried to them by the breeze. "They have not seen us yet," the king said, "but they are headed this way. Set upon them before they are upon us." And Celeborn nodded dutifully in reply, looking to his young niece, her ever cheerful face wracked with fear, and then to Galadriel, her eyes hard, determined. He reached out, grasping her hand momentarily as if to tell her that he would return and she nodded.

"Come back to me," she whispered, "swear that you shall."

"I will come back to you," he told her. "Doriath with me!" He called and the Doriathrin soldiers broke formation to follow him, their places quickly filled by Cirdan's men. He worried not at all about the royal party, for far greater than the protection of Cirdan's soldiers was that of Melian, who rode with them.

"Bows at the ready!" He called, reaching back for his own. They crossed the plain at a hard gallop, bearing down hard upon the orcs who, at last, had sighted them. "Fire at will!" He called, and the elves sent a hail of white tipped arrows towards the orcs, crying out in fierce triumph as many of them found their marks. Celeborn nocked an arrow, sighting it, aiming for a large orc who seemed to by attempting to rally the others, and released it, watching with pleasure as it struck true, skewering the orc's neck. The orcs had sent forth their own arrows now like black rain and the elves dodged the missiles aided, no doubt, by Melian's magic.

Soon enough they were upon the orcs, their hand weapons drawn and Celeborn grinned, feeling the familiar heft of his axe in his hand. Whooping, he fisted one hand in his horse's mane as he clung to the charger's side, swinging with his axe and beheading three orcs who had the great misfortune to be near to him. The blood spurted upwards, soaking his clothes. All about him his warriors were felling the orcs like flies and Celeborn sunk his axe into the top of an orc's head, ripping it up and out before he lopped off the top of another one's head.

There was a warg coming at him now and he wheeled his horse around so that he could leap from the saddle to the warg's back, where he landed behind the orc riding it and, drawing his knife from its sheath at his lower back with his left hand, slit the orc's throat and tossed the corpse to the ground. The warg bucked about wildly but Celeborn swung his axe with his right hand, bringing its blade down through the top of the warg's skull and leaping free as it tumbled to the ground in the throes of death. He felled several more orcs, whistling for his horse as he went and vaulting back into the saddle as the black charger pranced over to him, spirits high from the battle, which was now all but over. He patted the horse on the neck, thanking him with kind words as he watched the rest of his wardens kill the few remaining orcs.

"This land is of Beleriand and to Beleriand belongs the victory! Hail Beleriand!" Celeborn cried, and his soldiers echoed his words, crying out in a loud voice before they returned to the traveling party, crossing the plain once more, met by Thingol's approving nod. And Celeborn returned to Galadriel's side, reaching out once more to grasp her hand briefly, as if to say 'see? I have returned to you,' and he felt her squeeze his fingers tightly before she let go.

"I cannot lose you," she whispered, turning towards him, her voice awkward and stilted.

"I know," he told her. By the morning of the third day since they had set out they had climbed to the crest of the Andram and descended, galloping across the flat plain towards the river Aros, the welcome wall of green that was the forest of Region visible in the far distance.

They had encountered no more orcs since the early morning of the second day yet their pace was slowing and Celeborn perceived how worried Thingol grew, yet they were all of them silent, save Nimloth. She was not old enough to understand what was happening and she had been unable to sleep on the horse's saddle. Often she would cry, begging to stop, to be let down, and so her eyes were now rimmed red with lack of sleep and tears. Inwen must have been tired from holding the child but she refused to be parted from her, a fierce look in her eyes as she only clutched the girl tighter whenever anyone offered to take her.

Celeborn could see that Galadriel too was tired, exhausted from the emotional turmoil into which she had been thrown, and he wished that he could comfort her, that this seemingly interminable journey would be at an end already, yet even as he thought it Galadriel sat up straighter in the saddle and said, "that is Caranthir's banner." And Celeborn looked where she was pointing to see that, indeed, there was a great party of Noldor to the east riding as fast as possible, as though they were being pursued.

"Celeborn!" Thingol called and the prince nodded in affirmation.

"Doriath to me!" He called once more and he and his soldiers charged forward to rendezvous with those who rode under the banner of Caranthir. It was not long before they reached them but the Noldor did not stop even as they approached and, in fact, Caranthir's soldiers drew their bows upon the approach of the Sindar.

"Hail Caranthir Feanorian!" Celeborn called, "we are of Menegroth, come to aid you in your distress."

"Are you Thingol?" Caranthir called, signaling to his army to halt. He was breathing hard and wrath sat heavily upon his brow. He was a tall elf, though not as tall as Celeborn, and though his hair was as black as coal, his eyes were lit with an otherworldly light so that they seemed to shine as hot as coals in a copper brazier. Mounted upon a bay stallion he wore armor of black and gold, finely wrought.

"I am Celeborn, crown prince of Doriath and high prince of Beleriand," Celeborn said.

"What armor is this that you wear?" Curufin cried in wild distaste, gesturing to the Sindar and their armor of leather and bone and mail. "Have not Thingol's soldiers any proper armor?"

"We ride light, for we expected not for this land to break out into war whilst we were away from our capital," Celeborn told him, his heart growing hot at the Noldo's words. For just as Caranthir was the quickest of the Noldor to anger, so was Celeborn his Sindarin equal in that respect and the two elves sized each other up with fierce stares.

"We cannot tarry," Caranthir said. "Do you not know of the horrors that Morgoth has unleashed?" He spat the name of the dark lord with all the distaste he could muster. "Even now we are pursued by balrogs! There is no help that you can give us dark elf!"

"Balrogs we can fight," Celeborn said defiantly.

"And how?" Caranthir laughed coldly. "With your rustic axes and your wooden bows and your armor made of leather?"

"Nay," said Celeborn, "for we have a Maia in our party." And at that Caranthir went silent, thinking over what the Sinda had said.

"You ought to have told me earlier," Caranthir said, "that your queen rode with you…Moriquendi." And Celeborn bristled at the slur.

"I am one who prefers to keep his cards close to his chest," Celeborn replied with no small amount of venom in his voice, "especially when speaking to a slayer of my kin." And Caranthir's nostrils flared in anger but it was a charge he could not dispute, particularly when he was in dire need of Melian's aid.

"Very well," the son of Feanor said, though humility sat ill upon him as a coat hardly worn, "we should be glad for your most esteemed queen's assistance if she will grant it." And Celeborn nodded in acknowledgement.

"And I will assist you as well," he said with a grin, "even if you do not want it, for if there is blood to be let then I find that I cannot resist making it flow."

Caranthir laughed at that, a harsh croaking sound, and a smile twisted itself across his face, as though he was unused to making such an expression. "A sentiment I well understand, Prince of Doriath," he said, bowing respectfully to Celeborn before calling out to his army. They circled about, a great cloud of dust rising up as they galloped away while the Sindar moved to cover their escape. And, despite his brave words, Celeborn felt his courage clench in his throat as he turned to look in the direction from which the Feanorian had come and saw, not as far away as he would have hoped, a great wall of flame and, running before that, an army of orcs drawing ever closer.

He turned to send a man for Melian but, looking back from whence they had come, he saw that already she approached, alone, her white palfry's hooves swallowing up the earth as she rode with incredible speed. The queen's face was fierce and fey and she seemed now less elven and more raw power cloaked. But that cloak was slipping and there was lightening in her eyes and her hair floated wildly about her head almost as though it were made of black snakes poised to strike.

Celeborn spurred his horse forward and his soldiers followed without hesitating. Yet they could not keep pace with the queen, for she rode with a speed that could not be matched by any of the eldar. Stopping in the midst of the field she raised her hand and a piercing white light shone forth from it as she spoke, if indeed one could call it speaking, for it was no language of the sort that Celeborn had ever heard and seemed instead to be the sound of an earthquake or of thunder itself mixed with a strange high keening, a wail almost, or a shriek.

He could see the fire now and, in it, shapes like giant men with the horned heads of bulls and tails like oxen, their mouths agape, breathing flame, and their bodies charred and black, as if filled with burning embers. The orcs they drove before them and these quailed upon seeing Melian yet, suffering under the lash of the whips of their overlords and the flaying lashes of flame that the balrogs wielded, they scurried forward reluctantly and those who dared pass Melian were quickly slain by Celeborn and his wardens.

The light that the queen emanated grew until it spanned the horizon and all turned to brilliant white until they could see and hear nothing but a high ringing in their ears, the world seeming to move as if underwater, wrapped in perfect silence. And then, the light exploded outward, blinding them, and when next Celeborn could see, it was to observe that the host of Morgoth had turned back and was retreating with all haste until they were no more than a shadow on the horizon. Melian sat proudly upon her horse and, throwing back her raven head, laughed a deep laugh, deeper even than a man's and mocked Morgoth in words that none of them understood, a strange dark hissing, guttural, croaking language. Perhaps, Celeborn though in awe, that was her true voice.

"They will bother us no longer," she said then, her usual voice returning, and by the next morning they were once more safe within the girdle.

As they approached the gates of Menegroth, Luthien came running out dressed in full battle armor, not the light hunting armor of leather that she usually wore, a force of soldiers flanking her.

"Illuvatar's grace be upon you," she cried, raising her hand in greeting. "We were about to set out in search of you all!"

"What news have you?" Thingol asked, dismounting, still breathing hard as the grooms led the horses away, embracing his daughter, but there was deep concern in his eyes and Celeborn heard him whisper, "I wish you would take off this armor, daughter, and put away your weapons, for the sight of you looking as though you mean to go to war has struck fear into my heart."

"There has been a massive influx of elves into the capital in the past few days," Luthien said. "They have abandoned their homes and villages outside the girdle, which are now overrun with Morgoth's creatures. Even those who live within the girdle have moved closer to the capital. There are many green elves here, very many Sindar. Nellas led her people here on the second day since the siege was broken. Even some of the Avari have moved within the girdle."

"What have you done for them?" Melian asked.

"At the moment they are sheltering in the great hall," Luthien told her mother, "where I have had cots made up for them and the healers are attending all those who are injured there. We have provided them with ample food and drink. They are very frightened. We will need to find some more permanent solution in the coming days. It seems that most of them intend to stay. But there are many wounded who have need of healing." Thingol nodded.

"And what of the borders?" He asked.

"The girdle holds, of course," Luthien replied, "but I have doubled our forces at the borders with instructions for them to kill any and all of Morgoth's creatures who wander near our territory." Thingol nodded again.

"Please send word to my manservant to ready the bath in my chambers," Celeborn instructed the first servant who approached him, thanking the girl as she scurried away with all haste. Galadriel sat silent upon her horse now, near catatonic, and Celeborn could only imagine the dark visions that must even now be assaulting her mind.

"Help me," she whispered, her voice weak, and he reached up, assisting her down from the saddle. She nearly stumbled upon reaching the ground, her legs sore from days of hard riding, and soon Thingol and Melian came to their side.

"Take care of her," Thingol said quietly, his kind eyes concerned, "for she has been dealt a harsh blow indeed. Do not concern yourself with matters of state for now. I shall send for you if you are needed." And Celeborn nodded in return, grateful to Thingol for having proactively relieved him of his duties for the moment being, assuring that his interests were not conflicted. Melian only reached out, drawing Galadriel into a comforting embrace and kissing her brow before returning her to the custody of Celeborn. But the Noldorin lady did not meet any of their eyes and her betrothed strongly suspected that she studied the floor so carefully for fear of weeping if she beheld the faces of any she loved.

"I had word," Luthien whispered. "Galadriel I am so very sorry." But the Noldo merely nodded and Luthien took this as a cue to leave them be as, wrapping his arm about Galadriel's waist, Celeborn half carried her to his chambers. The walk had never seemed so long but all those they passed at least had the good sense to keep their silence.

"We shall get you a hot bath," Celeborn said, anything to keep her mind from the thoughts that consumed her now, "and perhaps something to eat. I have ordered for fresh sheets to be put on my bed. It would do you well to take rest." But she only nodded numbly.

Upon arriving at his chambers he found that everything had been prepared according to his instructions and dismissed his servants, thanking them. Quickly he divested himself of his armor and his cape, pulled his tunic over his head and cast it aside, rolled up his shirt sleeves and tied his hair back with a bit of leather. All the while Galadriel stood as though she had nearly forgotten how her body worked, staring into space and silence with unblinking eyes.

"Come here," he whispered, hoping to coax some movement from her, but she seemed as though she had not even heard him. He dipped his hand into the water to make sure that the bath was not too hot and then wiped the moisture away on his breeches. He reached out slowly, undressing her as though she were a child who could not do so herself, carefully setting her clothes, dusty from the long ride aside. Perhaps there were those who would not have believed him if he told them that there was nothing sexual to him about her nakedness now; he cared not at all what others thought. His only concern was to comfort her as best he was able.

There were bruises forming already on the insides of her knees and thighs from gripping the saddle for such an extended period of time. He made a note in his mind to rub them with salve later.

"Do you need help?" He asked her and she nodded numbly so he lifted her, helping her into the bath where she sat, knees clutched to her chest. She was quiet and remained so as, at last, the silent tears dripped from her chin, falling to the surface of the water. It was not only that the hot water would soothe her aching muscles, but that there was some quality about water, something in it that could make one feel new again, if only a little. He sat at the side of the tub, holding her hand, saying nothing, waiting to do whatever she needed.

An hour passed, maybe more, and then she spoke at last, her voice a frail rattle. "I feel so very alone," she said. Celeborn squeezed her hand.

"I am here," he told her, "at your side."

"I need you," she whispered, "here with me." He looked at her to make sure she was certain and she nodded, glancing at him with tear-stained eyes. He kicked off his boots, pulled off his shirt, shed his breeches and slowly entered the water opposite her, reaching for the bar of soap and, slowly, gently, he began to scrub her skin. They sat in silence after he had finished and she reached out, playing with the tendrils of silver hair that floated on the surface of the water.

"Finrod… he must have been there as well, why is there no word of him?" She sounded almost as though she was afraid to ask.

"You mustn't allow your thoughts to run that way," he said, "though I know it must be difficult to do so. Let us not presume anything. You have not seen him in your visions. Let that be enough for now."

"This curse…" she said, a haunted look in her eyes. "What does it matter if Finrod and I still live?" She asked him, "we are already living on borrowed time. Our doom will come for us, if not today then tomorrow and all the while it will drive the both of us mad, so mad that death will seem a relief."

"If doom comes for you then it must come for me as well," Celeborn said, "for I will stand by you even unto eternity." He meant it. With everything. He meant it.

"I know," she whispered, reaching out with trembling hands, clutching his. The water had grown cool and he helped her to stand, drying her skin, rubbing salve into the bruises that had formed on her legs. He put one of his shirts on her and she slowly made her way to his bed, seating herself on the edge of it, her fingers gripping the blankets hard, trembling.

"Do not send me back to my rooms alone," she whispered, pleading, her voice trembling. "Let me stay here with you, I beg you."

"You need not ask," he said and held her tight to him until she fell into an exhausted sleep. Yet he did not sleep and perhaps he would not have been able to anyway, for she tossed and turned and cried out in terror so instead he kept vigil over her restless slumber.

She dreamed of the endless ice that seemed to stretch into oblivion, a smooth white sheet of death, and kicked off the blankets because everything still felt too hot, years after escaping the Helcaraxe. She dreamed she was drowning in a sea of blood, sinking beneath incarnadine waves, her breath clutched tight in her aching lungs until she began to spasm with the futility of it, gasping for breath, her mouth filling with blood instead. And Celeborn held her tight against him as she screamed and cried, cursed, punched him, hit him, kicked him.

Angrod was dead. Aegnor was dead. She gasped, shuddering, shivering. Celeborn did not let go, not for an instant. Sometimes he clutched her too tight, so tight it almost hurt. She was glad for it. It reminded her that she was alive.

"Swear it," she had demanded. "Swear to me that you are alive."

"I am alive," he swore. He took her hand and pressed it over his heart so that she could feel the drum – slow-beating, deep-beating, crescendo - of it in his chest. "I am alive." He whispered. She wasn't the only one who needed to hear it.

The dreams had come, the visions, the vision of him dead, of his blood smeared on the walls, on the floor, and she had screamed as though her soul was being extracted slowly through her pores. "Don't leave me!" She had cried, tearing at her hair until it fell out, at her skin until she bled, sobbing until it made her sick. "Don't leave me alone in this world where I cannot find you!"

"Never," he swore. "I'll never leave you." At last her body grew limp, as though she had expended every ounce of energy, every fiber of her being, and she collapsed into sleep, a sleep so sound it nearly resembled death, and Celeborn had collapsed as well with her enfolded in his arms. He did not know how long they slept. It might have been a day. It might have been a week. When he awoke she was still sleeping. At last she had awoken.

"I will need a tailor," she said. He had sent for one. After that she wore the black of mourning, her face and her skin the only glimpses of white against the dark fabric. Her hair she shrouded in a black veil. His bed she made her own. Once she had tried to return to her own chambers. He had found her at his door after the span of a half hour, weak and trembling. Being alone with her thoughts was too much to bear.

After that she had sat in silence for many weeks. The sorrow and grief was gone from her face now. There was a hardness there instead. "Do not surrender the kindness of your heart to Morgoth," Celeborn whispered as she slept. Even as he worried for her he worried for his kingdom. They were plunged into war now. It was a war they could not win. Death, its hour come at last, was slouching towards them. He clung to Galadriel as though she were life itself.

In the silence and stillness of her sleep he sang to her an old song.

_I know not if my voice_

_Can reach to the sky;_

_I know not if the mighty one_

_Will hear as I pray;_

_I know not if the gifts I ask_

_Will all be granted;_

_I know not if the world of old_

_We truly can hear;_

_I know not what will come to pass_

_In our future days;_

_I hope that only good will come,_

_My beloved, to you._

It was a song from before the Noldor had come, from when the Sindar had not known of Namo or of the Halls of Mandos, when they had not known what happened to them after death. There had been those who had said that they passed into nothing. There had been those who said they walked among the living unseen. There had been those who had said that they became as the stars, dancing in the heavens.

"They love you, Galadriel," he had whispered. "They are in the sky now, watching over you still."

When she awoke again she said, "I cannot marry you, not for a while, for I would marry in happy times, not while I yet wear the black of mourning." And he nodded, understanding, having expected it.

"Of course," he replied, rubbing her hand. She had slept again after a while and Celeborn had quietly crept from the room, going to Thingol, who he had found with Beleg and Mablung, pouring over a map of Beleriand, moving pewter figures that represented troops of wardens here and there across its surface.

"Is there no word yet of Felagund?" Celeborn asked, leaning heavily on the table. Thingol shook his silver head.

"Nothing definitive," he replied, his eyes just as concerned as Celeborn's. "What we have heard does not bode well." He pushed a letter across the table, a letter from Orodreth. "It seems he heard that his brothers were trapped and rode north with reinforcements, hoping to rescue them. Orodreth has heard nothing from him since but has escaped to Nargothrond with his daughter, his son, Gil-galad, and his wife he sent to Cirdan. Fingon wrote of Angrod and Aegnor's deaths but he has not seen Finrod it seems, nor does he know his whereabouts."

"Give me an army," Celeborn said, "and I will go in search of him, extract him." Thingol shifted uncomfortably.

"This is not our war," Thingol said. "Our concern is protecting our borders, not in fighting Morgoth. We will stay within the girdle where our safety is assured."

"You are his liege lord," Celeborn said, his voice an angry growl. "He swore his loyalty to you and you accepted it. We cannot leave him to perish." Thingol's jaw was clenched tightly and he took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You risk your life, Celeborn," he said.

"I know what I risk," the prince replied.

"And what will happen if both you and Felagund perish? What will become of Galadriel then?" Thingol asked with concern. "Her fea will pass unto Mandos of her own will, as Miriel's did."

"I could never forgive myself if he perished when I might have aided him," Celeborn said, "and neither would she forgive me."

"The prince need not risk his life," Mablung said. "I will go in his stead and search for Finrod."

"Or I can go," Beleg said. "Celeborn is right, we ought not abandon him. And, what is more, I will not hide in these caves when I might be helping out there. "

"That is a gesture that I appreciate," Celeborn thanked them, "but he is my dear friend, his sister is my betrothed, and I feel compelled to seek him out myself." Thingol looked indecisive for a moment and then his mind seemed to settle upon a course of action.

"Very well," the King said, "you may go, Celeborn, and I will send an army with you, for what you have said is true, we owe Felagund our allegiance. What is more, I would hear from you directly regarding the situation of our borders in the North. Beleg, you will go with him and Mablung, I will keep you here to assist me in planning our continued response to this threat that has been awakened."


	28. Fire on the Mountain

  
**Fire on the Mountain**

In Cavern's Shade: 28th Chapter

*****

"I must not fear.  
Fear is the mind-killer.  
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.  
I will face my fear.  
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.  
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.  
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.  
Only I will remain."

– Dune, Frank Herbert

*****

**Author's note:** Can now confirm that there WILL be a full 13 chapters in Part III. And, there will be an epilogue chapter.

*****

"You cannot go!" Galadriel cried, her eyes fierce with anger as she watched her betrothed buckling on his armor. It was a very frightening thing to watch, for she had seen him don his leather hunting armor, had even seen him wear the armor of mail, and bone, and plate that he wore when he went to the borders, but this was the first time that she had seen him don armor for war and it frightened her. She could not help but imagine that Angrod and Aegnor must have looked so similar just before their deaths.

"I must," he said, "for both your sake and mine." She knew what he meant, that she was relying on him overly much for comfort, that it was unhealthy, but knowing that in her mind could not force her heart to accept it and she felt fear course over her like a wave, pushing her beneath its surface.

"If Finrod is dead then your death will not bring him back!" She grasped desperately at Celeborn's arm but, gently, he pushed her hands away.

"What if he is alive?" Celeborn asked. "What if there is some chance that he could be rescued?" Galadriel squeezed her eyes tight shut and shook her head.

"If you loved me you would not endanger your life," she said. It was a horrible thing to say, she knew, but Celeborn understood her meaning better than she herself did.

"Galadriel," he took her shoulders gently in his hands, "I am a soldier. I am accustomed to war and to fighting. This is not the first time I have left for battle, nor will it be the last. I am sorry but you must grow accustomed to it, as must I. I will return to you," he fixed his eyes on hers, trying to make her believe, but Galadriel only shook her head and wiped away the tears that threatened to fall. He will always come back to you, Lúthien had said, but Celeborn could not command death, no one could, not Finwe, not even Feanor who had himself caused so much death had been able to stop his own.

Celeborn sighed. Of course he was worried about going out there to that battlefield, for though the battle itself had tapered off there was no telling what he might find there. He had discovered enough foul things in his lifetime upon Morgoth's battlefields to be wary. But Galadriel's recent desperation to keep him so close at hand, panicking the second he even set foot in a different room than her, concerned him greatly, even more, perhaps, than this mission he was about to embark upon.

Melian had told him that those who suffer great tragedy sometimes rebuild themselves around another. He had seen it often enough himself in his own wardens, in his own people after the Battle of Beleriand: how grief could destroy a life just as surely as a sword could. If anything ever happened to him…if he were killed then it would destroy Galadriel as well. He had to wean her from him, the way a pup is weaned from its mother, until she was strong enough again to stand on her own. But he had not doubted her strength. He remembered the night he had first met her. She would endure. She would rebuild. She would smile again – one day, only she had to grow the courage herself to stand on her own two feet once more.

"I will come back to you. I swear it," he said, clasping her hands tightly within his own. Galadriel looked doubtful. "You must leave this room," Celeborn implored her, "find something you can turn your mind to, something to keep you from thinking overly much on your tragedy." Galadriel shook her head emphatically.

"No, no," she said. "I don't want to be reminded of it. There…" She sighed and turned away, pacing with short, quick steps to one end of the room and back. "There's death up there." She faced the fireplace rather than him because she could not bear to look at him. He approached, the metal of his armor clinking, the footfalls of his boots heavy upon the ground until she knew he stood behind her, could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. She should have expected hard love from him.

"Do you think," he said, "that this will be the last time you ever see me don armor?" Galadriel said nothing because she did not want to admit, even though she knew, that she would surely see Celeborn put on his armor time and time again. "This is my battle and I must go out and fight it," he said. "Your battle lies here, if you so choose to accept it." Galadriel said nothing. He stepped back, picking up his pack and his helm. "Will you come see me off?" He asked.

"I have no desire to watch you ride off to your death," Galadriel stammered, twisting her sweaty hands in her skirt almost manically. She heard Celeborn sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, as thought that would make this entire situation disappear. She knew he did not begrudge her her fear and yet she felt guilt sweep through her that she hadn't the strength to do what he asked.

"I love you," he said softly and she felt his hand in her hair, pushing it aside gently so that he could press a tender kiss to the back of her neck.

"I love you," she managed to whisper before she heard his retreat through the room and down the hallway, the door clicking closed behind him.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then the tears began to fall as she wept, wrapping her arms around herself as though that could shield her from the world. She paced back and forth in cramped little steps like a madwoman and then she ran to the door, throwing herself bodily against it, her hands grasping at the wood. It was not locked. It would have been easy for her to open it and yet it was such an impossible thing to do.

"Celeborn, Celeborn," she gasped his name over and over again as though that would conjure him while she collapsed against the door, falling to the floor where she stayed. In her mind she knew that this was his way of showing his love for her, that she did need to be able to stand on her own again, that she should not depend on him, but in her heart it felt otherwise. The possibility that he might die was far too frightening and she contemplated a world in which his spirit was confined to Mandos's halls while she roamed this earthen hell.

The elves spoke so often of the spirit being immortal and the body merely its vessel, a fragile thing that could be destroyed whereupon the soul made houseless would flee to Mandos's halls. But Galadriel knew that a man's spirit could be torn apart and cease and yet his body could keep on living so that he became lonesome and estranged from everything and everyone around him, walking the earth like a shadow, a spiritless cage. She had seen it on the docks of Alqualonde, had felt it in the bitterness that had clouded her heart, a cold far colder than that of the Helcaraxe, had seen it in Curufin's gaze, had smelt it on Maedhros's skin, the putrefaction of the soul.

She slept in the hot, pounding beat of a fever dream in which it was Celeborn who lay beneath that crystalline casket of ice, his face cold and purple and unmoving, his green eyes staring ahead unseeing, his silver hair floating in the dark waters of that murky grave and she pounded at the ice with her fists, clawed at it until her fingernails tore away like scraps of paper and blood poured forth, until her skin tore away and she scratched at that icy abyss with her bones: brittle, and weak, and broken.

When she had awoken she had been covered in sweat, her clothes soaked through with it, her fingertips bloody and raw from scraping at the stone and earth of the floor, Celeborn's name a whispered litany on her lips. And then she wondered what she was doing here lying on a floor when Angrod and Aegnor had given up their lives to stop Morgoth, when Finrod might be fighting him still, when Celeborn was leading an army of Sindar to the front lines in a desperate bid to save lives.

She pushed herself up on trembling arms and stood on weary legs, going to wash her hands in the white earthenware basin that stood in a corner. The water turned dark from the dried blood and dirt that had been lodged under her fingernails and she dried her now clean hands on her skirt. She allowed herself to linger for a brief moment, sitting upon the edge of Celeborn's unmade bed, running her hands over the thick fur of the wolf-hair blankets, and then she took his pillow, holding it to her, breathing in his scent: the smell of pines, and leather, and evening.

Stepping out into the halls she saw that they were bustling with elves scurrying here and there and she knew that everyone must be very busy, for thousands of the Green Elves and the Sindar from the outskirts of Beleriand had been flooding into the city in the past weeks and even now still more of them were coming. The kitchens, the laundries, the houses of healing, the weavers must be overloaded with work trying to provide for all of these people who had so suddenly found themselves homeless and destitute.

She went now seeking Inwen who, after she had questioned a few people, told her of a place that had been turned into a temporary infirmary since the houses of healing had been far too small to accommodate all of those who had been injured in the fighting that had so suddenly broken out. At last she found the place but the sight that awaited her was dreadful.

The room was very long and lined with cots upon which sat or lay elves who had been maimed in horrific ways. Some of them were covered in bandages from head to toe, crying out in pain at the burning in their flesh that would not stop, others had lost limbs, still others had lost husbands or wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, children.

Galadriel nearly staggered back as she was overwhelmed with memories of Alqualonde and she trembled as she walked amongst the cots, looking down into the eyes of tiny elflings, eyes that had gone cold and vacant in death, observing with shuddering heart a wife sobbing, tearing out her hair as she cradled her husband's dead body. There were Sindar, she could see, and many Green elves, and, even a few Avari here and there, easily distinguishable by their abundance of ear piercings and the black ink with which they marked their skin.

"Are you sure you should be here?" She heard a soft voice and the touch of a gentle hand on her arm, turning to find Inwen standing behind her. She was wearing her healer's uniform, a white cap covering her dark hair, a bloodstained apron pinned to her front. "You have lost much, Galadriel," she said, "perhaps seeing such things will only exacerbate the wounds that are still fresh in your heart."

"I want to help," Galadriel said, trying to will confidence into her voice, into her heart. She half wanted to flee this place, to get away from the blood, and the ruin, and the death. "Can you teach me how to…how to heal them, what to do?" Morgoth had had the victory at Alqualonde but he would not have the victory here, not if there was anything she could do to prevent it. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, determined. Inwen met her gaze for a moment and then nodded.

"Yes," she said, "but you must be prepared for what it will require of you. We are still losing a great many, mostly due to poisoned wounds or severe burns. Are you prepared for that?"

Galadriel nodded. "Yes," she said, feeling far surer of her decision now, "let me do what I can. I want to be useful. I want to help, to alleviate their suffering if I am able. I have seen death before," she said. But that doesn't mean that I am not still frightened by it, she vision flashed through her mind, Celeborn cold and dead on the floor of Menegroth, blood pooling around him, Lúthien, lying still, her dark hair scattered with white niphredil, Finrod in some deep, dark, dungeon. She calmed her mind, breathing deeply as Melian had taught her. A vision shows me possible paths, not absolute truths, she reminded herself.

"Then come with me," Inwen instructed and Galadriel followed her through rows upon rows of injured. Actually practicing healing seemed to dredge up some of the latent skills that Melian and the healers of Aman had instilled in her. Indeed, after a few days, she was able to do simple tasks such as changing dressings and bandaging wounds without the assistance of any of the healers or nurses, and, though the work was heartbreaking at times, and unpleasant all of the time, there was something about doing repetitive tasks that seemed to exorcise her soul of the pain of her brothers' deaths, or at least make it bearable.

Galadriel withdrew a fresh bandage from her pocket and approached the curly-haired Sindar who was sitting on a cot looking incredibly downtrodden. "I'm afraid it is time to change your bandage, Nellas," Galadriel said and the Sinda sighed, baring her arm for Galadriel.

"I didn't expect to see you again for a long while," the Sinda said as Galadriel wet the old bandage and slowly began to peel it off.

"I don't think any of us expected this," Galadriel told her. Nellas hissed at the pain as the dressing caught on her skin a bit before coming free at last.

"I don't know where the fire came from," Nellas said. "Before I knew what was happening it was just pouring down the mountains like a river." The skin beneath where the bandage had been was bright red and the muscle was exposed in many places with yellowish green pus seeping through here and there, though scabs were beginning to form, Galadriel noted with satisfaction. "Nasty isn't it?" Nellas said with a laugh.

"You'll heal very well though, I think," Galadriel said and Nellas sat in silence as she cleaned the wound and began to apply the new dressing. There were patients she was concerned about, elves who seemed to have lost their will to live, but Nellas was not one of them. The Sindarin girl was remarkably resilient.

"Beleg went with Celeborn, didn't he?" Nellas murmured and Galadriel glanced up from her task to meet the Sinda's brown eyes. Not that she had interacted with Nellas overly much, but she had never heard anything concerning her and Beleg before and now she wondered if there was some relationship she was not aware of.

"Yes," she said, nodding and silence fell between them.

"He's my friend," Nellas said quickly, as if to offset whatever it was she imagined Galadriel must be thinking and Galadriel nodded again, beginning to wrap the bandage around the Sinda's arm. "Are you…are you worried?" The younger elf asked her.

"Yes," Galadriel said, sighing, but it was a topic she would rather not dwell on and so a sort of awkward silence fell between them. Then Galadriel asked, more to break the silence than to know the answer, "will you stay in Menegroth?"

"I suppose," Nellas said. "It isn't as if we could ever return to where we were living before. Everything out there is destroyed. It's hard to imagine a normal life after this…that I could ever have a family…children of my own," she sighed and shrugged. "I might establish some sort of village within the girdle perhaps…I just can't fathom living in a city my whole life."

Galadriel laughed. "I can't imagine living in a forest my whole life," she said and Nellas smiled, having forgotten the pain from the burns on her arm.

"I suppose we must agree to disagree," she said. "I…" she paused and then shook her head.

"What is it?" Galadriel asked.

"I don't want to hurt you," Nellas replied. "Forget it."

"You were about to offer your condolences," Galadriel said and Nellas nodded. "It's alright," Galadriel told her, looking up at the Sinda, though she felt the pain lancing keenly through her heart. "I suppose I have to learn to talk about it sooner or later. I might as well start now."

"I'm sorry," Nellas said.

"No, it's quite alright," Galadriel reassured her.

"I…I've lost a lot of friends, lovers, out there on the borders," Nellas said. "I know I'm young but I've buried everyone who ever courted me, most of my relatives. I was just going to say that the pain…it doesn't ever stop, so don't waste your time on trying to get rid of it, but you will learn to live with it, eventually, and things will get better."

Galadriel nodded, "thank you." She whispered, feeling her throat tightening in sorrow. Nellas reached out and grasped her hand.

"Galadriel," she said, "he'll come back to you, Celeborn will. There's no standing in his way when it comes to you." Galadriel smiled at her, standing, having finished dressing her bandage, grateful for the Sindarin maid's plainspoken manner.

"You should rest now," Galadriel said, "and…perhaps you don't want to stay in the capital but we could really use people like you here, people who know where they stand and who they are, whose loyalties cannot be bought."

"I'll think on that," Nellas said with a smile, lying back down on her cot once more.

Not all of the work was that pleasant, indeed, most of it wasn't. Galadriel had felt the tears prickling at her eyes as she held down a young man who sobbed and screamed as Inwen amputated his leg below the knee. She wept openly as tiny elflings, orphans, died in her arms from the burns that they had sustained. She cradled their little bodies to her, wishing that there were more she could do, wondering why Mandos seemed so devoid of compassion, wishing beyond wish that war had never come. And she held mothers who had lost their children, wives who had lost their husbands, knowing that none of their medicines or procedures or potions could heal the wounds that had torn their hearts asunder.

It was at times like that that her thoughts returned to Tirion, to her mother who had so vehemently protested their leaving. As if their abandoning her hadn't been pain enough, Galadriel wondered what she must have felt when she had learned of the kinslaying.

"You have made the decision to leave knowing the consequences," she had heard her mother say to her father from the other side of a locked door, "and so if you ever come back you will find even Namo to be more forgiving than I." At the time, Galadriel had felt anger and pride flare in her heart, wondering that her mother could be so cold to those who loved her, but now she thought she understood, that Earwen had known that there could be no healing for the wounds they planned to inflict upon her. Perhaps she alone among them had understood that the tensions between the elves of Aman were at last coming to a head. Of course, in retrospect, it seemed so obvious that it would be so. Who could ever have predicted the kinslaying? Galadriel had thought in its aftermath. Only a fool could not have seen it coming, she thought now; what a fool she had been when she had first come here.

And that was why she was so worried now, for once again she could see the tensions brewing, a result of so quickly forcing so many disparate peoples into one place with which none of them were familiar, and all of them having just suffered a great tragedy, unsure of what their futures would be. Of course she knew that the Green Elves, and especially the Avari, bore no love for the Noldo and thus she had not been surprised when some of them refused to allow her to touch them, turning her away, preferring to wait hours or even days for treatment from one of the Sindarin healers.

But she had been a bit more surprised, though not completely so, for she had observed much of the differences between the elves of Middle Earth herself, and what she had not observed she had heard from Celeborn, or Bainwen, or Lúthien, when squabbles had broken out between Sindar and Laiquendi, or Laiquendi and Avari, or Sindar and Avari. Then the guards would come running, calming those involved, cautioning them about what would become of those who dared fight within the walls of Thingol's palace.

The king himself was certainly aware of the situation, Galadriel noted, for she had seen elves that she knew to be informants of the king milling about in the infirmary and in the great hall as well, where many of the refugees were being temporarily lodged. Not only that but the guard had been increased and she had noted that many of the guards posted to the infirmary and the great hall were Laiquendi themselves; Thingol was being judicious in his choices.

Of course, Galadriel was not the only one who had noticed this; many of the refugees had noticed as well and some of them had taken to picking fights with the guards.

"You might be green on the outside but you're a grey elf on the inside," she had heard a Green elf say to one of Thingol's guards who was a Laiquendi, "serving the king of the grey elves rather than your own people. Don't you remember Denthor and what happened to him?" Galadriel found herself grateful that Thingol's guards had so much discipline as to be able to ignore such comments. The common people, however, had not, and the stress of being so crammed together in temporary living quarters had sparked more than a few fistfights between Sindar, and Avari, and Laiquendi.

Galadriel began to wish most ardently that Celeborn would return, not just because she feared for his safety and because she hoped that he would return bearing news that Finrod lived, but also because she knew that both the Green Elves and the Avari, especially, trusted Doriath's prince far more than they trusted her king and, if there was anyone who could calm the simmering tensions that were silently threatening to throw this city into chaos, she trusted that it was he.

*****

Celeborn knew that Galadriel resented him for having left her alone but he had seen for himself far too often the crippling effects of dependency in the wake of tragedy. Still, even though he knew with conviction that he had done what was best, even though he did not doubt the capacity of her strength and fortitude, he worried for her and, what was more, his own heart ached for her. He knew well what it was to lose friends and loved ones to war. At the moment he was desperately hoping that Finrod would not be another such friend.

Then again, there was the fact that military encampments were not a particularly pleasant place to live and, though his soldiers were jovial and friendly, nights spent sleeping in burlap tents made him long for her, for his bed that she sometimes shared, for something, someone who did not smell of death and ruination. The battlefields they had stumbled across so far were bare, with nary a trace of life, though death lay thick over these lands now like a suffocating smog. The very earth herself seemed to cry out to him, burnt and charred and oozing like a wound. The trees were mere blackened stumps of their former living glory and there were no animals about, no deer, no rabbits, no bears even.

They had ridden for weeks but it had been slow going for they were under strict orders to avoid engaging the enemy if at all possible, which often meant a good deal of waiting, and backtracking, and traveling through difficult terrain. Now Celeborn's company had dismounted and they were walking through the swirling mists of those barren plains, hoping that going at a slower pace might make it easier for them to recognize clues as to the whereabouts of the Noldor. Yet all they seemed to find was death and destruction. The earth trembled like a frightened animal beneath their feet and her surface was littered with charred and blackened corpses, the corpses of elves, of orcs, of creatures that Celeborn had to assume were the humans that Finrod had been speaking about. It would have been proper, fitting, just, to bury them but Celeborn knew that was an impossibility. There were simply too many. Most of them appeared to have perished in some great conflagration, as if a fire had swept through this land, reduced to nothing more than armor and bones.

The earth herself seemed to be nothing more than a skeleton. The stench was nigh unbearable and Celeborn kept his gloved hand over his nose to keep it out as best he could, but it was little relief. He stopped next to yet another elven corpse. Insignia, livery…everything of cloth had been burnt away leaving only the blackened and burnt armor and bones behind. There was no way of telling whose soldiers these had been: the Feanorian's, the Fingolfinian's, the Finarfinian's. He sighed. He knew that he ought to be more disturbed by what he was seeing, and that was what troubled him most, that he seemed to have grown used to this. Truthfully, it was not so surprising, for war was his trade, but he wondered at himself that he could look at such a scene as this and feel so unmoved.

He came to a stop, looking up at the sky, clogged with blackened oily smoke, and out across the plains from which columns of charred ash seemed to be rising into the air. All was darkness here, not the darkness of night, but the darkness of battle, of pollution, of destruction. He smelt them before he saw them: orcs; the stench of shit and death, and his soldiers smelt them too, pulling into tight formation, standing at the ready.

Then from across the bloody cooled plain of war gone dead they saw them scurrying towards them across the ground like glittering black beetles and he knew that there would be no evading this fight. With a flick of his wrist he signaled to his soldiers to ready their weapons and the cavalry swung up into their saddles while the infantry and archers made ready. They too, seemed to have been anticipating a fight and Celeborn glanced to his right, listening to the creaking noise of Beleg drawing his great black war bow. He too carried a bow but instead he drew his axe and, in his other hand, his knife. Arrows made for remote, impersonal kills but Celeborn preferred the intimacy of a blade.

He raised his hand again and, with the merest gesture of his fingers, signaled for his soldiers to engage, feeling the arrows whistle past his head in response as they fell upon the orcs like bitter rain. Another flick of his wrist and he heard them shoulder their bows, heard the scraping of metal as knives and axes were drawn. The orcs were squealing, grunting like pigs as they rushed forward, drawing crude and blackened blades. They had changed over the centuries, looking less elven now, and Celeborn was glad for it. It did not make it as difficult to kill them, did not make it so easy to remember what they had once been.

"You want a fight Morgoth?" He whispered. "Then bring it to me." His hand tightened around his knife and he could feel his warhorse tremble with excitement beneath him before he gave the order and then they were charging across the ground, the horses' hooves thundering across the scorched earth and he raised up a great, whooping battle cry, his soldiers crying out in unison as thy met the front line of the orcen army like a tidal wave of cold steel crashing upon the shore.

Celeborn swung his axe down into the upturned grisly face of an orc and then tore it free, black blood dripping from the sharp blade, before beheading another. The orcs were swarming his horse but the animal was trained for combat and lashed out, kicking even as his rider pulled a screeching orc up into his saddle, opening his arteries with his curved knife before casting the lifeless corpse aside. Celeborn hefted his axe, preparing to swing while with the other hand he drove his knife down through the top of an orc's skull.

But, before he could swing, he was knocked from the saddle as a warg collided with his horse. He hit the ground with an almighty thud, having fallen at great speed, and rolled over before he came to a stop. He felt an orc climb on his back and twisted around to grasp the grimy wrist that threatened to drive a knife clear through him, twisting his hands and breaking every bone in the orc's arm. He drove his knee into the orc's chest and then took its head into his hands, snapping his neck with a satisfying crack. Grabbing up his axe and his knife, he leapt to his feet, swinging his axe in a wide arc of silver that caused the heads of two orcs to go flying.

He drove his knife into the diaphragm of the next orc that came at him and watched as he gasped futilely for air before he clove another orc's head in half with his axe. A tall thin orc swinging a fanged sword came running at him but he easily ducked beneath the blow and came up to embed the pointed end of his axe into the orc's chin, driving it up into his face. Ripping the point out he turned weapon about and beat the orc's face in until blood sprayed wildly and brain matter leaked out. Turning about, he swung the great blade and beheaded another orc, tossing the head aside, but another one of them grabbed his axe arm and he fought to free it, reaching out with his free hand and crushing the orc's windpipe. He let go when it released its hold of his axe and let the corpse fall to the ground.

He broke the neck of the next one with his bare hands and ripped the windpipe from the neck of the one that followed that. He was a blur, working fast, an efficient butcher, and the orcs feared him, the weaker and younger ones fleeing before him. But they stood no chance and he caught them, some of which he finished with his axe, and for the others he opened their chests. He was breathing heavily but never did he stop. The continuous action prevented him from thinking about what had become of Finrod, what would become of Galadriel, of him, of this kingdom. The blood was pounding in his head, his heart pounding in his chest.

All about him his soldiers were fighting bravely and then he saw that they were not fighting alone, that from the other end of this orcish army were soldiers in gold mail battling their way towards them through the swarm of orcs, Noldorin soldiers. They looked to be a ragtag band of survivors, bearing not even a standard with them, but Celeborn was glad to see them, for perhaps these were Finrod's men or, if not his, someone who could at least tell him of Finrod's fate.

They were fighting side by side with the Noldor now, hewing the orcs down as if they were no more than flies and then, at last, the orcs were no more and Celeborn's army in resplendent armor of silver, stood opposite the Noldorin army in glittering armor of gold. Then, from across the plains, he saw a figure coming towards them through the haze, a figure in golden armor. "Finrod!" He gasped, hardly daring to believe it for a moment, and he lowered his axe to his side. But a second and more wary glance told him that this was not Finrod after all, for though the elf's face was covered by a helm, he knew his friend's walk and that was not it. The figure stopped before the Noldorin army, his sword dripping with the foul blood of orcs, standing silent.

"Peace, friend!" Celeborn called, raising his hand in greeting and he heard his army come to a halt at his back, standing at the ready. "I am Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, and I come in the name of Elu Thingol to lend you what assistance I may!"

The commander of this army strode forward and Celeborn moved to meet him, to extend a hand in greeting, but it was not a greeting that he was met with, rather the ferocious swing of the Noldo's sword and Celeborn was forced withdraw his hand quickly, to raise his axe, to meet the blow, to block it. He heard his soldiers draw their bows in response even as the Noldorin soldiers drew theirs.

"Hold!" Celeborn cried to his soldiers, bidding them not fire upon the Noldor, even as he held against this strange captain. Yet, in his chest his heart was pounding like a hammer upon an anvil, wondering what madness this must be for one elf to draw a weapon upon another. He pushed up on his axe, keeping the pressure steady, preventing this Noldo from driving the blade of his sword through his head. His eyes searched the narrow slit on the visor of this elf's helm, looking for some sign of who he was and then…then he found it; he had seen these eyes before, and his heart plummeted to his feet.

"Celeborn. Now that," said the elf with a voice like black oil, "is a name I have not heard in a very long time. You do remember, don't you, what I promised to do to you if ever we met again?" A pair of eyes lit with an otherworldly madness stared at Celeborn.

"Curufin Feanorian," Celeborn whispered and then he pushed into Curufin with his shoulder, knocking him away as he brought his axe up, guarding against further attack. Curufin reached up, tearing his helm from his head and discarding it, his black hair spilling across his shoulders, and Celeborn could see the madness in his eyes, the perverse delight that seemed to infuse every line of his face as a sickly smile wormed its way across his lips. The son of Feanor circled him, sword at the ready.

"What a wonder that you illiterate cave-dwellers have wandered out of your hiding hole and into the light of day," Curufin said with a grin. Celeborn glanced to the side and saw that Celegorm had come now to stand the head of the army now, saying nothing, only watching him with dark and mysterious eyes.

He felt his heart clench with dread and found himself extremely glad that he had an army at his back. Still, that army might prove to be more of a liability than a blessing for things would go ill for Doriath indeed if they were forced into a battle with the Feanorians and Celeborn did not doubt that Curufin knew this as well, that perhaps that was what he was trying to do.

Curufin took the opportunity of Celeborn's momentary distraction to strike but Celeborn was faster and more skilled than he had anticipated, blocking his blow with ease. "It's just a friendly match, Prince of Doriath," Curufin whispered as they circled one another, "just a little bit of fun."

But Celeborn's heart clenched within him in dread. He very much believed that Curufin's idea of fun involved his death. But he found himself startled as he looked into those eyes lit with insanity, that the idea of killing Curufin was not entirely repulsive to him, that the idea of eliminating that constant threat was even a bit appealing.

Yet Curufin seemed agitated by Celeborn's defensive posture, by his unwillingness to strike. "What's the matter, Cele-born," the Noldo hissed, deliberately mispronouncing Celeborn's name, "afraid you can't beat a Calaquendi? Why don't we raise the stakes? If you win, I leave Beleriand. If I win, I send your mutilated corpse back to that golden-haired whore of a cousin of mine. Just think of what that would do to her hm? Poor thing, just after her brothers have died, after all she has been through. Think of what that would do to her soul, Celeborn." Curufin grinned gleefully at the thought but Celeborn felt his skin prickle in revulsion.

"Or," the son of Feanor remarked, "we could just start shooting and see who comes out on top." He grinned. Celeborn felt a muscle involuntarily clench in his jaw. He knew he must back down, that to kill Curufin meant war, and yet, horrifyingly enough, that seemed to be exactly what the son of Feanor wished for: death and it seemed not to matter much to him whose it would be: his or Celeborn's.

"What's the matter dark elf?" He hissed. "Too pure to slay another elf? Too weak to give me what I want? Won't you have some pity on me? Everything is so fucking dull. This war is so fucking dull."

His copper eyes remained fixed on Celeborn's green ones, smiling, and then he stopped. "Do you remember this?" He hissed in the purring tone of a lover sharing some deep secret as he drew forth from beneath his armor a prism of crystal on a silver chain. "I had it made especially for you." Celeborn tried to keep the horror from his face as he recognized the silver hair, stained with blood that was imprisoned within the stone; it was his own. "Crude, isn't it?" Curufin said. "Nothing like my father's Silmarils, but then who could ever imagine that the hair of a little darkie such as yourself could shine with the light of the trees, silver though it be – shadow elf – and they had the perverse audacity to name you 'silver tree' as if you, a Moriquendi, could ever resemble Telperion." His face twisted into a smile. "My father wanted to put Artanis's hair in his Silmarils. Three times he begged her for just one strand from her golden head but she refused."

Curufin struck again, first left, then right and Celeborn blocked both, their weapons locked together now between their chests, their faces a mere hair's breadth apart. The son of Feanor's breath was hot with hatred as it danced against Celeborn's skin, his eyes steeped in madness. "When next I see her," he whispered, quivering with perverse excitement, "I will take her whole fucking head." With those words, Curufin drew his sword up in the blink of an eye but Celeborn had anticipated it and brought his axe up just as quickly, blocking the blow, and Curufin was forced to push up hard on his sword to keep Celeborn from driving the blade of his axe through his head.

But Celeborn had had enough and he noted with satisfaction that the son of Feanor was unused to fighting against axes, that he, unlike Finrod who had taken so much care and time to learn the Sindarin fighting techniques, was entirely unfamiliar with the Doriathrin style of fighting. Celeborn almost smiled at that but he would not give Curufin the satisfaction and he managed to maintain a straight face even as he exerted as much pressure on his weapon as he was able, hearing the satisfying crunch as one of Curufin's wrists snapped.

But it was not anger that glazed the Noldo's eyes in response, nor even pride, but rather it was sheer lust unbridled and he let out a soft and gentle breath laced with orgasmic joy as his eyes met Celeborn's and he whispered, "you did it at last. I thought you never would." His foul lips curled into an even fouler grin. "I nearly felt something. I nearly felt alive," he breathed as he backed away, holding his sword in his off hand, his right hand hanging limply.

"My Lords Curufin and Celegorm!" A gruff voice accompanied by a laugh called. "Whatever is the matter here?" And at the interruption Celeborn breathed a sigh of relief, for the soldiers of both sides had been distracted by the new arrival and lowered their bows of their own accord. The uncomfortable tension had come to an end and Celeborn returned his axe to its sheathe.

A soldier had come riding up on a dark bay horse, so dark it was nearly black. Indeed, it was generous to call that creature a horse; hackneyed nag would have been more apt. And the man himself was outfitted in armor, though it was certainly nothing as fine as what either the soldiers of Curufin and Celegorm or the soldiers of Doriath were wearing. It seemed to mostly be made of leather, and shabby leather at that, with a few ill-fitting plates of battered metal holding it all together, shoddy chain mail clothing him beneath this armor. The man swung down from his equally shoddy saddle and removed his helmet to reveal a head of shaggy dark hair which he ran a hand through, and the beginnings of a beard's dark shadow around his jaw: a human man.

The man slapped his horse on the shoulder and then, taking the reins, walked over to where Curufin and Celegorm stood. "My Lord Finrod shall be up from the rear shortly with my father," the young man said. "My apologies. I fear that the injuries my father has sustained have not allowed them to travel at the same pace as you here in the vanguard."

Curufin said something that Celeborn could not hear and Celegorm merely nodded, looking extremely sour about the whole situation, as if he wondered whether or not his army ought to have taken the chance to kill the Sindar while they had had the chance. It was strange, Celeborn thought: that nowadays elves thought like this. But his attention quickly returned to the human for he was, after all, the first live human that Celeborn had ever seen and there was something about this man that was so fascinating after all.

He had turned now and was approaching Celeborn with a cheerful, broad grin, his stride confident and unassuming despite the intense conflict that he had just so handily disbanded. "Soldiers of Doriath," he said, barely able to restrain the excitement in his voice, "from the hidden kingdom! I never thought I would have the privilege!" He laughed and fastened his shoddy helmet to the shoddy saddle on his shoddy horse before reaching out to offer Celeborn his hand. But he quickly withdrew it before Celeborn could grasp it.

"My apologies," the man said with a grin, "I was not thinking and my hand is rather grimy I fear, certainly not fit to shake the hand of Thingol. I shall kneel instead."

"I am not Thingol," Celeborn said with a laugh, a grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth now. Despite the tension and fear of a few moments earlier something about this man brought a great deal of levity to the situation, as if he did not even know the meaning of fear. "And you need not kneel, nor withdraw your hand, for I have touched far worse things and, indeed, I would account meeting a human for the first time an honor." Celeborn found his heart, which had moments earlier been so very heavy, oddly lightened by this jovial an unassuming man. Indeed, something about his temperament was so reminiscent of Lúthien that Celeborn could not help but grin.

"Then I am honored to be your first," the man said with a cheeky grin and a wink as he and Celeborn clasped hands. "But I must ask, if you are not Thingol then are you Celeborn, Finrod's friend, or, ah, have I misspoken yet again?"

"Nay, in that you are correct," Celeborn said. He could not quite tell how old this man was, for by elven standards he would have accounted him nearly full grown, so perhaps 50 years of age or so, but Finrod had said that men reached maturity far earlier and so Celeborn was left with no idea whatsoever of what his age might be. Yet, old or no, his eyes, which were dark and kind, also seemed to hold great wisdom and Celeborn knew that, despite his bravado upon arrival and his handy way of smoothing the entire situation over as if it had been nothing, this young man had immediately and fully grasped the dire nature of the situation.

"Ah, Finrod has arrived at last," the young man sighed, as if this was a great relief to him. "You can't trust these lot," he whispered to Celeborn with a grin, jerking his head towards the sons of Feanor.

"Felagund!" The man called, raising his hand in the air in greeting and striding forward towards the Noldo, leading his horse behind him, but Finrod had already dismounted, having handed his reins to a squire and was now striding quickly towards them.

"Celeborn!" He cried in a weary voice, as though the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders. "You cannot possibly fathom what a relief it is to see you." And so saying he embraced his friend warmly, drawing back. "I see you've met Beren," he said, nodding towards the human, "and that is good. I hope that you had no trouble with my cousins. I was detained at the rear of the army, caring for Beren's father, my dear friend Barahir, to whom I owe my life." Finrod seemed nearly out of breath, was clearly exhausted. "Why have you come?"

"In search of you," Celeborn said. "We were all very concerned when we heard… when we learned of Angrod and Aegnor. Galadriel was beside herself with anguish."

"Ah yes," Finrod said, drawing in a deep, shaking breath and pursing his lips as if the memory of his brothers was still too fresh to speak of. "I…I rode as fast as I was able from Nargothrond but…but I was too late." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Let us speak of it later," he said.

"Come back to Menegroth with me," Celeborn implored him, "even if it is only for a day. Galadriel needs you. Let our healers tend to your wounds and you may have a bed, a proper supper."

"Yes, yes," Finrod said, "I think I will but first…" he sighed, "first I must deal with this lot I fear." He glanced back towards his cousins.

"They drew on us," Celeborn informed him and Curufin seemed to find this an ideal time to speak his mind once more.

"Artanis's little silver-haired dog," Curufin interjected. "Strange to see Celeborn of the Trees not cowering behind a woman's skirts for once."

"That is enough!" Finrod said with vehemence, turning to his cousin. "Celeborn is my friend and my liege lord."

"And the imbiber of your dear sister's sweet nectar," Curufin sneered. Finrod's hand went to his sword.

"Say but one more word, son of Feanor, and your tongue shall never speak again," Finrod spat while Celegorm looked on with dark, unamused eyes. The Feanorian had enough sense at that moment to quiet himself but Celeborn did not doubt, looking into those mad eyes that he would never be able to forget, that there was much yet that Curufin wished to say and even more that he wished to do. His threats may have been mad, but they were not idle.

"Let us rest here for the night," Finrod said to all those gathered there, "for we have many with us who are gravely injured and it would do us good, perhaps, to recuperate for a short while."

"Perhaps it would do you good," Curufin said, "but the sons of Feanor do not deem it suitable to rest and dine with second-born and dark elves."

"Very well," Finrod said, turning angry eyes upon his cousin. "We would be glad to be rid of you as well, for though you fought fiercely, your violence seems to not be confined to the battlefield but plagues us even now."

"Then we shall go indeed," Curufin said, "perhaps we'll even stop by Nargothrond and pay Angrod's dullard son Orodreth and his Moriquendi wife and their mixed-breed children a visit."

"Perhaps you will try," Finrod said, "but Orodreth will not allow you to pass within my city." Curufin turned with a sneer, mounted his horse, and before long he, Celegorm, and their army were nothing more than a fading dot on the horizon marked only by the dust that their horses' hooves kicked up.

"I am sorry for the unpleasantness," Finrod said, turning to Celeborn once more.

"It is no fault of yours," Celeborn told him.

"Tell me," Finrod said, "have you any healers in your retinue?" And Celeborn nodded.

"Indeed we have," he said, "though of course they are not used to tending humans."

"That doesn't matter," Finrod assured him, "indeed, I believe elvish medicine will set humans to right very quickly." Celeborn had nodded and summoned the healers forward, ordering his army to make camp, and by the time that the moon rose and the stars had begun to appear in the sky, the tents were set up and the bonfires were crackling away as the smell of roast venison pervaded the air.

Celeborn removed his riding gloves and set them across his knee, staring blankly into the crackling fire as he seated himself beside Felagund.

"You are betrothed," Finrod said quietly and Celeborn turned to his friend, startled, stretching out his hand to look at the silver and pearl ring that glimmered there on his index finger.

"Oh, yes," he said, surprised almost, for the engagement had been the furthest thing from his mind of late, overshadowed as it had been by everything else. "I meant to tell you only I forgot. It was the morning that we received word the peace had been broken that we became engaged. We were in the Falas and we rode straight back to Menegroth immediately. It was a week later that I set out from Menegroth in search of you. There were so many other things on my mind: the death of your brothers and Fingolfin, Morgoth's growing strength, wondering whether you still lived…"

"You left her alone so soon after that tragedy," Finrod said, and there was some bitterness in his voice.

"I comforted her as best I was able," Celeborn replied, fixing his gaze upon his friend's eyes. "Yet the pain was beyond my power to heal. That she must do herself, and she could not do it while I was still there, for she was using me as a crutch, as a way to escape the reality of what had happened. You need not fear for your sister, Finrod, for she is steel and this fire will temper her."

"Forgive me," Finrod said after a moment of silence. "I…it is just that with Angrod and Aegnor dead I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to her…." His voice trailed off into silence.

"You need not apologize, my friend," Celeborn said. "You spoke in the trouble of your heart and that is no crime. You have endured much in these past few weeks, more than anyone should."

"They're…" Finrod stopped and started. "I buried them where I found them rather than contemplate bringing them to Doriath for burial. I hardly recognized them anymore…Galadriel's heart would have broken at the sight. War makes some things pointless…I could not imagine a funeral…"

"I am sure that she will understand," Celeborn assured him and Finrod nodded, but Celeborn saw the tears that had gathered in his friend's eyes.

"Forgive me," Finrod said. "I am so weary and I worry greatly over Barahir's condition. These humans…their spirits are so strong but their bodies so frail. Wounds that would be but superficial to us are the death of them."

"I am sure he will be well again soon," Celeborn said, "for our elvish medicine worked very quickly upon the humans who were injured, so great was its strength. Even the healers were amazed. And besides, his son Beren seems a very good and diligent lad. I am certain that he will properly see to his care."

"It is just that I could never forgive myself if any ill were to come to either of them," Finrod explained. His eyes met his friend's and Celeborn could see the worry churning in the depths of them. "I…I was cut off from my forces in the Fen of Serech when the rivers of flame began to flow down from Thangorodrim," Finrod said. "And I knew that I would not reach my brothers, that they were already dead, or doubtlessly would be soon. But I thought then that I would most assuredly perish as well, for I had only a small company with me and the orcs swarmed thick as ants across the earth."

"Celeborn, I…" Finrod stopped for a moment, choking back tears, "I could not help in those moments, moments that I believed to be my last, but think of Galadriel and that she would lose all of her brothers on the same day." He reached up, quickly wiping tears away with rough hands, almost as if he were ashamed of them. "My poor sister," he said, his voice cracking. They sat in silence for a few moments as he recouped and then Finrod continued.

"Barahir rushed in with his son and a troupe of soldiers, making a wall of spears about me. It was the only thing that saved me, that saved Galadriel from the pain of my death. I owe him my life. His losses were heavy, and all for my sake. Such kindness where I had done nothing to deserve it…" Finrod fell silent and Celeborn sat in contemplation.

"You are a true and loyal friend, Finrod," he said, "which is something that everyone knows." The Noldo merely shook his golden head.

"What sort of friend was I when I first came to Menegroth?" He asked. "I…" he laughed ruefully, "I was so bothered by the idea of a dark elf courting my sister. I told you as much, I told you that I thought of the Sindar as lesser. And what sort of brother have I been to my sister? I sought to protect her at the expense of her own happiness. I forced her to keep a secret against her conscience. The things I said to her…how can I forgive myself?"

"I have forgiven you, Thingol has forgiven you, Galadriel has forgiven you. You are good, Finrod, and loyal, and true. Your cousins have not half your worth," Celeborn said, "even Maedhros, enlightened though he was for a Feanorian, still saw others as lesser."

"I am not good enough," Finrod replied.

"Can you not let go of the sins of the past as Galadriel has done, live a new life here?" Celeborn asked gently.

"There are some wrongs for which there is no remedy," Finrod murmured. "Amarie awaits…" He fell silent for a while before speaking again. "I am happy," he said at last with a small smile as he gazed upon the ring on Celeborn's finger, "that you will wed my sister. She deserves to have one man in her life who does not let her down, who will always come back to her. Swear it to me, Celeborn, swear to me that you will care for her when I am gone."

"Felagund," Celeborn exclaimed, his heart deeply troubled by his friend's somber and foreboding words, "there is no need for such a thing! You will go on to rule for many thousands of years!"

"Ah, my friend," Finrod said, "Galadriel is not the only child of Finarfin to be cursed with foresight."

Celeborn thought it rude to argue with him and so he did not, for Finrod was in a strange mood indeed, and so he merely said, "then I swear it to you that I shall care for her for ever and for always when you are gone, though it is my most ardent hope that such a promise will not be necessary." Their conversation lapsed into silence as they both gazed into the fire then and, as Celeborn looked upon his friend, he could see that doom lay upon him as a shadow and that Felagund would not cast it off, but would go into darkness and his heart grew unbearably sad at the thought.

They managed, at last, to get some sleep that night and, when they awoke, they found that the elvish medicine had indeed worked wonders and Barahir and his men were in much better condition the next day when they rode off, thanking the elves many times before returning to their life in the wild, but the elven armies of Celeborn and Felagund turned south, crossing through the mists of the girdle and into the heart of Doriath's forests, headed for Menegroth. And Celeborn found that he could not quite shake Finrod's dark words and they followed them, hanging over him as a cloud, until at last they reached the gates of the city.

*****

"Celeborn!" He had not expected to find Galadriel here in the infirmary but there she was all the same, standing there in a blue woolen dress covered in stains with a white apron pinned over her front that, truthfully, was more red than white, covered as it was in dried or drying blood. Her golden hair was pushed back in a cap and there were bandages stuffed in her apron pockets. She had never looked more beautiful. Indeed, the mere sight of her had robbed him of breath. She plunged her hands into a basin of water, drying them on a nearby towel. Her pace was brisk, the last few steps a jog as she crossed the room to embrace him. "Celeborn," she whispered his name again as he caught her in his arms, holding her tight against him, inhaling the heavenly, freshly-washed scent of her hair, so different from the death he had seen out there on that battlefield. "Thank the Valar you have returned," she said, "this city is in need of you. I need you."

"And what of me?" She heard a tired voice ask. "It is all 'Celeborn this' and 'Celeborn that' and no care given for Finrod."

"Oh Finrod!" Galadriel moved to embrace her brother, holding him as tightly as she was able, brushing tears away from her eyes as she stepped back to look into his grinning face. "Are you hurt?" She asked him, concerned.

"Nothing much," Finrod said. "Some cuts, some bruises. But I was hoping the healers might take a look at some of these burns."

"Of course," Galadriel said, glancing towards Celeborn.

"I am unhurt," he said with a smile and her eyes softened. Inwen came over then and they all helped Finrod out of his armor before the healer had him sit so that she might examine him more carefully.

"Water, Galadriel," Inwen said and the Noldo hurried off to fetch it. They wet the area of his shirt around the burn before they gently began to pull the fabric away but it still stuck a little before it came loose and Finrod hissed when at last it came free. The burn across his chest was a violent shade of crimson and oozing a foul-smelling yellowish pus that seeped through the cracks in his raw, red skin. There were white marks where it seemed that the skin had been seared against the metal of his armor like meat in a hot skillet.

"How did you get these burns?" Galadriel asked her brother softly, as she applied ointment to his wounds and wrapped them in fresh bandages.

"There were great rivers of fire flowing down from Thangorodrim, as if the whole world had been lit aflame," he said. "But let us speak of this later, in private, and I will tell you all that passed and how our brothers lost their lives"

*****

Celeborn had sat up waiting for her in his room, for he had suspected that she would come to him when she was finished speaking with Finrod rather than return to her own rooms, and indeed she had, though it was quite late in the day and most of the city was already asleep.

"I…I hope you don't mind," she said, looking up at him furtively as she entered. He could tell that she had been crying, for her eyes were swollen and red.

"Of course not," he said, stirring in his bed, setting his book aside and sitting up. Galadriel took off her apron, tossing it to the floor, her cap following close behind, and then she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her back facing him.

"Could you?" She asked and, wordlessly, he reached out, undoing the laces that ran down the back of the woolen gown until it fell from her shoulders and Galadriel pulled her arms out of the sleeves so that the top of the dress fell to pool in her lap. She sighed as if that had taken some monumental amount of strength, and Celeborn reached up to take the pins out of her hair, watching as her eyes fluttered closed and silent tears began to wet the golden lashes pressed tight against her cheeks. The thick waves of her hair tumbled down to her waist as he removed the last pin, moving to set the delicate little things aside on a table.

Galadriel pressed her fingers to her temples and sighed, the tears falling slowly down her face now, and Celeborn moved to sit beside her, stroking her hair. She raised a hand to her face, wiping the tears away. "Sometimes I feel like glass," she said, "perched precariously on a ledge, that sooner or later I will fall and shatter."

"And yet glass can withstand dragonfire," Celeborn said. He felt that it wasn't enough, that words could never suffice, that this was a wound he could not heal. He wanted to fix things but he was powerless to do so. Galadriel stood, pushing her gown to the floor, and straightened the shoulders of her cotton shift before climbing into bed and pulling the sheets and blankets overtop her. Celeborn climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.

"They were so close in age, only a few years apart," Galadriel whispered. "Somehow, it seems fitting that they died together." She turned around so that she was facing Celeborn now and he could see that the tears were still falling. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, laughing. "I remember," she said, "when Aredhel was just coming into her majority there," she sniffed, wiping tears away, "there was this boy she liked but she was so afraid to speak to him and so Angrod and Aegnor locked her in a closet with him." Galadriel grinned, wiping away tears again.

"How did that turn out?" Celeborn asked with a smile, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"When next we opened the closet we found them kissing," she said with a laugh, "in that awkward way that young people do, as if they hardly knew how." She smiled.

"Then there was that time…I had a goldfish as a child," she said.

"What's that?" Celeborn asked.

"You know, one of those little orange fish that people keep in bowls," she told him but he shook his head. "Do you not have them here?" She asked.

"Not that I am aware of," he told her.

"Well they don't live very long is the point," she told him. "Maybe a year or two at most, often only a few months. But mine lived for ten years, Celeborn, ten years. And I believed it as a child, that that was what had really happened, that my fish had outlived all other fish. Because I loved that fish, absolutely loved it. But I was so young that of course I was horrible at taking care of it and one day I came back to my room to find it still and unmoving. Then I wept and Aegnor came running in, asking what was the matter so I showed him. 'He's just sleeping, Artanis,' he told me. 'Just go to bed and when you wake up in the morning he'll be awake too.' So I did and, sure enough, the very next morning my fish was swimming around again, happy as could be. Of course, years later I figured out what he had done, that all those ten years he had been replacing the dead fish with live ones the whole time." Celeborn laughed.

"I know not whether that is an unkindness or a kindness," he said and Galadriel laughed too.

"A kindness to me," she said, "but think of all those poor fish!" They laughed again.

"And Angrod," she said, growing more solemn, "do you know he was the only one who agreed with me when we first came here, the only one who supported me when I said that I thought we ought to tell Thingol about the kinslaying straight away? All of my cousins, the Feanorians, Fingon, Turgon, Aredhel, my uncle Fingolfin, Finrod, Aegnor, all of them wanted to keep silent. I was ostracized in a way for wanting to speak of it and Angrod supported me. That time we went to Nargothrond I spoke to him of it and he was the one who made Finrod come here, who forced him to do it, who decided that we would tell Thingol at last, for my sake. I always knew that I could count on him to stand by my side, even when no one else would." She took a shuddering breath and wiped away the tears that began to fall once more, falling silent.

Celeborn stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, wished that there were some way that he could make this pain cease, but he knew that he could not. He hated this feeling of helplessness, of uselessness, of the inability to comfort the woman he loved. "What can I do?" He asked.

"Just hold me," she said, giving herself over once more to sorrow as he drew her into his arms, holding her tight.

*****

Gradually life in Menegroth returned to normal, or as normal as it could ever be now, though sadness seemed to follow them like a shadow, even in their moments of happiness. But some things were different. In the years following, Nellas, true to her word and her heart, had taken her people from the capital city but they had not moved very far and now dwelled within the girdle, in the forest of Region. There were, however, many elves who had elected to remain in the city and it was for that reason that the halls seemed now to constantly ring with the sounds of picks and hammers, for the masons and miners were hard at work in carving out a new district for the city from caves of stone in which these newcomers might comfortably dwell. Menegroth was near packed to capacity it seemed.

"I really should have moved by now," Galadriel grumbled to herself at all the noise as she wound her way through the corridors of Menegroth, perusing the various notes and letters that had arrived from her cousins and from Finrod that were intended for Thingol. She was still living in those same cramped, inconveniently located rooms that she had purchased so long ago, despite the fact that she could certainly afford better now, and the new district was being built quite near to where she was living, which really was a massive inconvenience, not to mention a headache.

"I did offer you a better living arrangement," a familiar voice purred in her ear and Galadriel nearly leapt into the air in shock, her heart pounding wildly.

"Celeborn!" She gasped, turning to see her green-eyed lover laughing merrily at her side, nearly doubled over in mirth. "Why must you always do that?" She hit him with the sheaf of letters and proclamations for good measure.

"Because it vexes you so," he said with a grin, reaching out to tug on her hair. "All these years among the Sindar and you still haven't caught on to our wily, secretive ways," he teased her, slipping a hand about her waist.

"Not here, in public," she whispered, pushing his playful hands away. "I'm working."

"So am I," Celeborn told her. "For your information, there is a very important matter regarding the safety of our borders that I must speak to Thingol about."

"Well I," Galadriel said, brandishing her sheaf of documents at him, "have important missives from Gondolin to bring to his attention."

"I suppose then, Lady Ambassador, that it is all a matter of which of us gets to the king first," Celeborn said, raising an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"I am not going to wait for you to be finished," Galadriel groaned. "The two of you sometimes talk for hours and there are many other things I must do this evening."

Celeborn laughed, "well the matter I must discuss with him is very important," he said.

"Doesn't look like it," Galadriel teased him, glancing at his dirty moss green breeches, his scuffed and worn brown boots, his open, stained, white canvas shirt, his silver hair pulled back in a loose and messy plait.

"Looks aren't everything, Princess," he said with a smile, raising an eyebrow. "And besides, I was sparring with the wardens."

"Lose to Mablung again?" Galadriel asked him.

"Every time," Celeborn replied with a laugh, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his breeches.

"Oh dear, shall I console you?" Galadriel teased him, glancing about to be sure they were not being observed.

"What?" Celeborn asked, but Galadriel replied by pushing him into a secluded corridor and planting a kiss firmly on his lips, her hands slipping beneath his open shirt to ghost across his bare flesh before she clasped the hand upon which he wore his engagement band, bringing it to her lips and placing a soft kiss upon the silver ring as she slowly met his gaze. "Valar, you undo me," Celeborn gasped, watching her with hooded eyes.

"I know," Galadriel murmured with a grin before she turned and strode back the way they had come, making for Thingol's office as quickly as she was able. She knew he would not be able to follow her now, at least not for a few minutes, and she smiled, delighted with her deviousness.

Thingol's door was just ahead now and she inclined her head politely to his guards but she was startled by the sound of shouting and one of the guards stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on her arm.

"I beg pardon, Lady Galadriel, but I am afraid you will have to wait a moment. The king is occupied at present," the guard murmured with a furtive glance at the door.

"Of course," Galadriel replied, startled, moving to sit on one of the stone benches in the corridor. One of the voices had been Thingol's but the other she had not been able to discern. Celeborn had recovered, it seemed, and now was headed down the same hallway. He cast a curious glance at her before the guard motioned for him to wait as well and he seated himself at her side.

"That was very devious of you, Galadriel," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I hope you are proud of yourself."

"Wasn't it though?" She replied with a grin. "You almost make it too easy to torment you, Celeborn."

"Why deprive you of one of your greatest pleasure?" He quipped with a laugh and then their conversation was interrupted by the raised voices coming from within Thingol's office, making them forget their light-hearted banter of a moment earlier.

"Am I to stay confined to this palace forever then? Is that what will make you happy?" It was unmistakably Lúthien's voice. Galadriel cast a glance at Celeborn and saw that he was just as surprised as she. Of course, Lúthien had confided in her before how frustrated she grew with her father, but Galadriel had certainly never heard them argue over it. Thingol said something they could not quite hear and then Lúthien spoke again.

"It is within the girdle!" She cried. "I only want to go visit Nellas's people, take them some gifts, some food. Everyone's spirits have been hard tried these past few years and it would do them good to be reminded that the royal family cares about them! And this in particular is a time when we ought to be smoothing over any problems. The tensions in this kingdom between our people and the Green elves and the Avari were terrible just after the Dagor Bragollach! There were fights breaking out in the houses of healing! Some display of goodwill…"

"You do not have enough experience in diplomatic affairs to presume to lecture me…" Thingol began, his voice deep and angry.

"Because you never allow me to gain any experience!" Lúthien shouted. "I am your daughter! I am the crown princess of this kingdom! I want to do something, anything to help our people but whenever there is anything to be done you always send Celeborn, or Oropher, or Mablung, never me! You haven't let me go anywhere since Himlad!"

"With good reason!" Thingol boomed. "You could have been killed there, Lúthien! Can you not understand that I fear for your safety?"

"Maybe Finrod was right about you all those years ago!" Lúthien cried. "You're nothing but a frightened king hiding in his caves. There's a whole world out there father! We ought to be doing our part and instead we are holed up here like moles!"

"You know not of what you speak!" Thingol shouted, his voice practically shaking the stone around them.

Galadriel saw that even Celeborn's eyes grew wide at that and he turned to her, whispering, "I…I don't think I want to speak to him after this." Galadriel nodded.

"Me either," she said, swallowing hard. She had observed the change in the king herself, watching as he slowly reverted to the hopelessness and paranoia that had plagued him in the years before the long peace. She knew that Celeborn had seen it too, though they had never discussed it together, for she had come to recognize the tense manner in which the prince held his shoulders when Thingol was ill at ease, the way that the concern for his kingdom distracted his thoughts, the long silences he fell into when his mind was preoccupied with worry, how his usual sense of humor waned and then disappeared. She reached out, threading her fingers through Celeborns, reminding him through her memories of the smell of spring niphredil blossoms, the freshness of clover in green meadows, the budding of new leaves on trees after a long frost and she felt him squeeze her hand in gratitude.

"I know exactly what I am saying!" Lúthien shouted back, her voice matching her father's in ferocity. "You don't even care about me or my happiness. I treat my dogs better than you treat me! What am I to you? Celeborn is more your child than I will ever be!"

"LÚTHIEN!" Thingol roared, but the princess had thrown open the doors of her father's study, pausing in surprise for a moment at the sight of Celeborn and Galadriel sitting there staring blankly and nervously at the door from which she had just exited. "WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING?" The king bellowed, appearing in the doorway.

"TO THE FOREST TO DANCE!" She shouted, turning back. "DON'T WORRY! I'LL TAKE DAIRON WITH ME SO HE CAN SPY ON ME FOR YOU!" She then stormed off, the earth trembling beneath her footfalls like an earthquake, tears streaming down her face.

Thingol stood in the doorway for a moment before turning and saying, "see that she does not leave the city," to one of his guards. His furious gaze then turned towards his nephew and Galadriel who tried and failed to shrink back into the shadows. "What do the two of you want?" He spat.

"Nothing," they said in unison, shaking their heads, before they quickly took their leave.

"Your room?" Galadriel asked and Celeborn nodded. They did not speak until the door had closed behind them and then Galadriel took Celeborn's hands in her own. "Swear to me," she said, "that if we have a daughter you will never, never, ever strip her of her freedom in order to preserve her safety." Her eyes were glinting with latent fire and Celeborn knew how worried she was for Lúthien. He too was worried for his cousin.

"I swear it," Celeborn said, looking into Galadriel's eyes with concern. "I am not Thingol, Galadriel. I am different."

"I know," Galadriel said with a sigh, shaking her head as if to clear the fould thoughts away. "I know. I'm sorry." Throwing herself down on the divan and kicked off her shoes. "I just…" she shook her head, "I feel very sorry for her. She's right you know; he doesn't let her do anything. She is a princess in name only. And here I was thinking that Tirion was bad."

"I feel for her as well," Celeborn said, squeezing in behind Galadriel and pulling her up against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "I almost feel as though it is my fault. Perhaps I could have done things differently at Himlad. And, if I had, maybe it all would have turned out for the better. I lost my temper and…"

"It isn't your fault," Galadriel said firmly. "Curufin is mad and there is no reason that Lúthien should have to suffer because of him."

"Thingol's paranoia is growing again," Celeborn murmured, "just as it was before the long peace began. You haven't seen him at his worst, Galadriel. I love him as a father but still, things were very bad just before the Battle of Beleriand. When he is under this kind of stress he becomes impulsive, overly proud, does not heed the words of his advisors or of Melian."

"He was bad enough just before the long peace," she said. "I still remember how concerned you were. What do you do when he acts like that?" She could feel Celeborn shrug against her back.

"I have found that the best thing is to just ignore him and do what I would have done anyway. Of course, he gets angry about that but he forgets it in time, once he has returned to a more reasonable state."

"Do you think that is what Lúthien will do?" Galadriel asked.

"No," Celeborn said with a sigh. "She is too much like her father. She is unable to just let things lie, to bide her time. She thrives off of winning hearts and minds, wilts when she cannot. She will stop at no lengths to change her father's mind, to turn his heart to her will. And he won't stop until he does the same to her."

"An impasse," Galadriel said.

"Yes," Celeborn replied.

"I wish there was something more I could do for her," Galadriel told him. "She has been confiding her frustrations in me of late, but still, that does not seem as though it is doing her much good."

"There is nothing we can do, I fear, except bide our time," Celeborn said. "They always work things out eventually, even if it does take an entire century."

"Or two, or three," Galadriel replied. She tilted her head back so that she could see Celeborn and he tweaked her nose with a grin before she settled back against his chest, closing her eyes and relishing in the warmth of him, in the beating of his heart beneath her ear. She heard him sigh and looked back up at him. "There is something else that is bothering you," she said.

"Perhaps it isn't the right time…what with this trouble between Lúthien and Thingol and with you still in mourning," Celeborn said. "I don't want to offend you." He shook his head and then gazed into the fire. His eyes almost seemed haunted but there was a yearning there as well.

"The engagement…" Galadriel said and Celeborn let out a sigh. She sat up, taking his hands in hers. "It has nearly been ten years," she told him. "In a few more months my period of mourning will be at an end."

"And then?" Celeborn asked, his eyes watching her.

"Then we shall have the betrothal ceremony, if you still wish it," Galadriel said happily and Celeborn cast his eyes down with a small smile before kissing her brow.

"I wish it, but I want more than that," Celeborn said, meeting her gaze again and Galadriel felt her heart catch in her throat, as ever it did when he looked at her with such raw longing. "I have been thinking, Galadriel, ever since last I saw Finrod, that this war is growing and perhaps I shall have to go to battle again soon. I do not know what the future holds," he said, "but I would spend what time is left with you." He shook his head and laughed. "What I am trying to say," he told her, "is that I would like you to live here with me, as we spoke about when we renewed our courtship, if that is agreeable to you."

Galadriel turned about in his arms so that she might better look at him, smiling and tucking his silver hair behind his ear. "It seems so strange," she said, "that we eagerly anticipated our betrothal for so long and then, as soon as we were betrothed, so many things happened that superseded it. Let us go to Thingol and, when my period of mourning has finished, let us then have the betrothal feast, for I long to see Finrod again and then I shall live with you here. For, I too find myself longing for the comfort of your arms in my sleep, but I must admit that I rather fear that Doriath would soon have another unexpected prince or princess."

Celeborn laughed, "Indeed," he said, "I rather fear that as well. It is my singular reservation."

"It is no wonder then," Galadriel laughed, "that Thingol is so worried of late with princes like you and Galathil."

"Oropher, at least, went about things the proper way," Celeborn said with a laugh before bending down to kiss her forehead. "Will you risk it or no, Galadriel?" He asked. "If you like I could sleep on this divan and you could have the bed for yourself. I only want to be near you, to see you when I wake, and when I go to sleep."

"That won't be necessary," Galadriel said. "For I do wish to live here with you and you needn't sleep separately from me. I have been thinking of late," she said, "ever since Angrod and Aegnor died, that we ought not waste what time we. Indeed, I have often thought on Melian's words that day that Finrod first spoke to us of the humans: that we ought enjoy what time is given to us and fill it with love. I never knew Andreth, nor do I know even if she still lives, but I think it rather tragic that the loved that she shared with my brother went unfulfilled and now shall go unfulfilled for all eternity. I can't help but think that…well…" she wrung her hands, "if something were to happen to you."

"Galadriel," Celeborn turned her chin towards him, "do not worry yourself over a vision that you yourself cannot see clearly."

She sighed. "There are not many things nowadays that give me hope, Celeborn, but this ring is one of them," she said, holding her hand up so that her engagement band glittered in the light of the fire.

"Very well then," Celeborn said, "let us go to my uncle when your period of mourning is over and we shall write to Finrod and invite him and then, at the feast, this betrothal will finally be official."

"And I want the marriage to be exactly a year from the betrothal date," Galadriel told him. "I will not wait a day longer than is required." Celeborn laughed and shifted so that she could rest her head on his chest.

"Indeed," he said with a grin, "I hope that we can manage to make it a full year.

She stayed with him that day, though it was Celeborn who was first claimed by sleep and Galadriel lay at his side, running her fingers through his long silver hair which gleamed in the firelight as though she held a shower of stars betwixt her fingers, remembering the dark visions that had been seared into her memory and the words of doom that Finrod had spoken. She had seen in Celeborn's eyes this night that he had not forgotten these thing either, that they haunted him still though he spoke of them not, that he wished for her to share his bed because he felt their time running out like sand in an hour glass, slipping away into the seas of time. "I will stand by your side," she said to him in the silence, "and together we shall fight the long defeat."


	29. Son of Man

  
**Son of Man**

In Cavern's Shade: 29th Chapter

*****

"In Doriath bound in a spell

then doom fell on Tinuviel,

and Beren caught that elven maid

fair Lúthien, whom love delayed."

– J.R.R Tolkien

*****

**Author's note:** I'm going to talk about Celeborn a bit in this author's note. Celeborn is such a complex character and I think on a lot of levels he is even more complex than Galadriel, although she is also pretty complex. This makes him incredibly hard to write. Actually, there are a lot of factors that make him the most difficult character to write for me despite the fact that he is my favorite. One big factor is that I think fanfiction doesn't do him justice so I am really paranoid about making sure he is exactly how I want him. At worst in fanfic he is portrayed as completely subservient to Galadriel, which I find really strange considering he actually has far more lines of dialogue than her in every single book he features in. Also, this is kind of a slap in the face to Galadriel because I'm sure she is perfectly capable of choosing a worthy husband. In a lot of stories, even the ones where he is portrayed favorably, he is still portrayed as this kind of quiet, philosophical guy and I really don't think that is how he is actually characterized in Tolkien's books. Tolkien actually characterizes him as having a serious temper. Plus, throughout the course of the legendarium Celeborn leads more armies into battle than any other elven king except for the Feanorians and Fingolfinians.

In addition, quiet shy Celeborn goes against what we know about the other three Sindarin kings (Thranduil, Oropher, and Thingol) who all have really aggressive temperaments bordering on or crossing over into outright violence at times. It is really rare that I find a Celeborn who rings true to what we see in Unfinished Tales or Fellowship, where he is actually quite volatile, pretty aggressive both verbally and physically, and speaks his mind plainly, even if what he has to say is considered to be rude. But unlike Oropher and Thingol, Celeborn seems to have a much keener appreciation of the consequences of his words and actions and, though like the other two he does have prejudices, he doesn't let his prejudices blind him to what needs to be done. Thingol is ultimately done in by his prejudices towards dwarves and Oropher by his prejudices towards the Noldor. Yet Celeborn extends his welcome to Gimli and marries a Noldo, even though he certainly has problems with both dwarves and the Noldor he is able to set these personal grievances aside for the greater good.

When I first read FOTR I was shocked by how he threatened to throw the fellowship out of Lorien the minute he met them (which is perhaps why I took a liking to him is because I thought he was feisty) and then he actually listened to Galadriel's advice (unlike Thingol), let them stay in Lorien, and then did everything he could to ensure their success. I was also really impressed by the knowledge he showed of Middle Earth by talking about all the various lands and their inhabitants. In fact I found him to be the most grounded elf in the book, though I like them all. Celeborn is really present and Celeborn is really intense, decisive, and pragmatic. Those are the traits I really wanted to convey in my characterization of him.

A big difference between him and Galadriel is this. With Galadriel everything is pretty much on the surface. She is pretty open about things, at least now, and even when she isn't open about her problems to others she is usually pretty quick to become aware of what it is that is bothering her and why. Essentially, she processes her emotions more quickly. But Celeborn is like an iceberg, only 10% above the surface with the other 90% not visible, even to himself. While he doesn't generally run from his problems like Galadriel occasionally does and, though he is very pragmatic and has no problem making quick decisions, it sometimes takes him a really long time to figure out how he feels about something or why he feels that way. So he can make a decision about something quickly, like that he loved Galadriel but was kind of afraid of getting back into a relationship with her again, but it takes him a lot longer to understand why he felt that way (he was afraid that if he lost her again it would be too painful to endure) and to process his emotions. Galadriel is also decisive but she tends to doubt her decisions even after she has made and acted on them (e.g. she is still doubting and feeling bad about whether her decision to be in a relationship with Celeborn brings him under her curse). But once Celeborn has made his choice and then once he understands why he made that decision or felt that way, he is completely content and no longer doubts his course of action unless someone else draws it into question later down the road, in which case he usually reconsiders it very willingly and openly.

Anyway, my inspiration for him is taken almost entirely from his character in Tolkien's works but I have also incorporated a lot of aspects of the culture of the South-eastern U.S., especially the culture of honor, pride in heritage, and of the kind of easy-going life as well as the deep connection to nature and the land that a lot of Americans from the south have. I have also incorporated a lot from several Native American cultures, particularly Choctaw and Navajo, into his personality. For his connection to nature I incorporated a lot of aspects of shamanistic religions, particularly Shinto. My husband is ethnically Shinto so he is a font of information on this. For the songs that Celeborn sings I do write them myself but I draw really heavily from the songs of cultures or religions that have a close connection to nature. Specifically, I use a lot of resources such as Buddhist sutras, Arapaho ghost dances, and Appalachian spirituals.

Ok. That's Celeborn! If you have any more questions about him please ask in a review or shoot me a PM and I will be happy to talk about him forever because I have such a massive crush on him (is it obvious?)

*****

Celeborn let out a deep breath, looking at himself in the mirror one final time, smoothing a hand across the richly embroidered silver tunic he wore, noting the bemused expression of Galathil, who stood behind him. "What do you think?" He asked his brother, turning about.

"If I were a lady I would be swooning," Galathil said, wiggling an eyebrow in a most disconcerting fashion. Celeborn rolled his eyes.

"I find these sorts of formal ceremonies all rather tedious and slightly embarrassing," he said, and he did feel embarrassed. There was nothing more that he hated than being the center of attention and he would much rather be out on a battlefield wielding his axe than putting this ring on Galadriel's finger in front of his entire kingdom. It wasn't that he didn't want to be betrothed to Galadriel, he very much did, but it was just that, to him, it was such a personal thing and he would rather not make it public. Though, of course, he knew that he must; he was a prince of Doriath after all and she was a princess of Aman and so, regrettable though it was to him, some aspect of their relationship would always have to be public. "I don't want to do this," he grumbled, fiddling with the knife at his back.

"See?" Galathil replied. "I told you that my way was better. Formal betrothals are so old fashioned. But, of course, you wouldn't listen to me."

Celeborn snorted with laughter. "Uncle is rather old-fashioned, in case you haven't noticed," he informed his brother. "Besides, I could never get away with that. I'm the crown prince and, well, Galadriel is a princess."

"That," Galathil said with a laugh, "is your fault. No one forced you to choose the daughter of the High King of the Noldor in Aman. You are the one who got yourself into that mess." Celeborn sighed and his brother laughed again. "Don't think about the ceremony then," Galathil advised, "only think about bringing Galadriel back to your bed and ravishing her. I have heard that ladies are in quite a romantic mood after their betrothal ceremonies, more willing to do things they would otherwise not consider."

"Your mind is foul," Celeborn said with a grin, shaking his head.

"As if yours is any purer," Galathil scoffed, satisfied that he seemed to have lightened his brother's heart somewhat.

"Shall we go then?" Celeborn asked and they made their way to the great hall. His heart was beating like a hammer in his chest, his throat unbearably dry. He had known Galadriel all these years, been betrothed to her for a decade already, and yet the thought of announcing the betrothal publicly, going through the ceremony, made him so very nervous. He took in a deep breath and let it out again, glancing down at the white line on his finger where he ordinarily wore his silver engagement band. They had removed them and entrusted them to Thingol and Finrod for the ceremony. He didn't like not having that band on his finger.

Galadriel was nervous too, he knew, for the Sindarin ceremony was different from the Noldorin one, or at least that was what he had come to understand, but Melian and Lúthien had both walked her through it multiple times. He found himself wondering what she would look like and the anticipation grew in his heart, coupled with nervousness. It seemed almost impossible to believe that, after all this time, this was really happening.

They arrived then and he glanced about the hall, swallowing hard as he realized just how many people were gathered there; it seemed the entire kingdom had turned out for the ceremony. All of the silver lanterns on the trees were lit, glowing merrily, and the trees themselves had been hung with garlands of white peonies and roses. He paused for a moment by a fountain, amazed to see that it was flowing with wine, and wondered which of his friends had engineered that feat. It seemed like something Mablung would do.

The hall seemed interminable but at last they arrived at the other end of it, by the dais, and everyone had something to say to him: Thingol, and Melian, and Lúthien, and Beleg, but their words seemed to drift in and out of his head like a fog. He nervously wiped his hands on his dark blue breeches and took a quick glance up at the ceiling to see the stars dancing overhead. He shut his eyes for a brief moment, allowing himself to drift into the memory of a city on a hill where the white buildings gleamed in a golden light, where the streets were paved with diamond dust.

"Celeborn, Galadriel has arrived," he heard Galathil whisper in his ear and he opened his eyes. He nearly had to shut them again for the sight of her at the far end of the hall, her arm on Finrod's as they entered together, nearly brought tears to his eyes. She was stunning, more stunning than even the first night he had seen her, for his love for her had been magnified many times since then. Suddenly it was as if no one else existed, for all he saw was Galadriel.

"The most beautiful of the house of Finwe," Thingol whispered in his ear with a small laugh, placing a hand on his nephew's shoulder, and Celeborn nodded, dumbfounded; it must be true. He had never seen anything or anyone more stunning. Even the wonders of the forest and of Menegroth itself could not compare and he suddenly found himself wondering at how very odd it was that he, born in the light of the stars, raised in the twilight hollow of this earth, had fallen in love with a beam of sunlight. She was radiant.

She wore a gown of palest blue silk over which a delicate mesh of golden lace had been overlaid, with a long, sweeping skirt and a close fitting bodice. The sleeves came down to her wrists but her elegant shoulders were bare. A necklace of bright, bold stones: emerald and rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and diamonds glimmered at her neck, coming to rest between the gentle swell of her breasts and an elegant golden circlet sat upon her head. Her hair tumbled down her back in golden waves. But for all her finery, Celeborn could not take his eyes from her face, her blue eyes shining brilliantly with joy, the pink flush of excitement blooming on her cheeks, her lips curving in a happy smile.

"Go to her," Thingol had whispered, but Celeborn had nearly been struck immobile and it was only Thingol's hand that managed to propel him down from the dais and forward to where Finrod and Galadriel now stood. Once he drew near to her, Celeborn remembered what to do and, unable to keep a smile from his face, reached out, taking her hands in his.

Galadriel took a deep breath and he could see that she had been just as nervous as he. They both smiled and then laughed, giddy with excitement, with nerves. "We are gathered here today," Thingol said, standing at Celeborn's side, "to welcome the betrothal of Arafain Celeborn of the house of Elwe, Grandson of Elmo, brother to the king, son of Galadhon and Candil of the Royal House of Elmo and Elwe, Crown Prince of Doriath, High Prince of Beleriand, High Prince of the Sindar, to Artanis Nerwen Galadriel of the House of Finwe, Granddaughter of the same and of Indis, his queen, daughter of Finarfin, High King of the Noldor in Tirion. Granddaughter of Olwe, King of Alqualonde and brother of the king, and daughter of Earwen, Crown Princess of the Teleri of Alqualonde, High Princess of Tirion, Princess of the house of Finarfin, Princess of the Noldor."

"Finrod, called Felagund," Thingol said solemnly, addressing Galadriel's brother, "do you give your sister, Galadriel, to Celeborn of your own free consent and with the blessings of the Houses of Finwë and Olwë?"

"I do," Finrod said solemnly. "Thingol, King of Doriath," Felagund addressed the King, "do you give your nephew, Celeborn, to Galadriel of your own free consent and with the blessings of the House of Elwë?"

"I do," Thingol said and then both he and Finrod stepped back as Galadriel and Celeborn took one last step towards each other.

"Galadriel," Celeborn said, taking her hands in his, "do you give yourself to me of your own consent?" His heart was pounding in his chest, though he knew that certainly she would say yes.

"I do," she replied with a beaming smile and, with trembling fingers he slipped the silver and pearl betrothal band onto her index finger. "Celeborn," she said, "do you give yourself to me of your own consent?"

"I do," he said, and she slipped his silver ring onto his finger. They had worn the bands before but, as he looked down at them now, on the fingers of their joined hands, they seemed all the more special.

Thingol stepped forward once more. "May the blessings of both houses and of Eru Illuvatar, the One, the Father of all, the Creator of Ea, Lord of all Arda, who set up the firmament without pillars in its stead, and who stretched out the world from one horizon to the next and grace, and prayer-blessing be upon the Valar, powers of the world, and upon the Maiar and their companion train. Prayer and blessings enduring and grace which unto the day of doom shall remain. Eru Illuvatar! O Thou of heavens and earth sovereign!" He cried and the blessing was complete.

There was a great bustling then as the feast was prepared and tables and cushions were carried in along with steaming trenchers of food and great trays full of empty wine goblets but Galadriel and Celeborn merely stood still where they had been, unmoving, looking into one another's eyes with great joy. "I want nothing more than to kiss you at this very moment," Celeborn whispered and Galadriel smiled.

"That is also what I wish," Galadriel said and she waited not a moment more, but leaned forward and pressed her lips against his and it felt to him as though spring had come and he was standing in a beautiful garden, a garden filled with impossibly tall trees with silvery bark, with tall, pristine, white roses and delicate pink cherry blossoms. Bright little goldfinches sat preening themselves in the trees and, from nearby, he could hear the melodic sound of a dulcimer. The memory faded as she pulled back and he opened his eyes to see her eyes smiling at him.

"One more year," he said, "and we shall be married." It seemed so surreal.

"It seems such a very long time," she whispered and he led her to the banquet table, where they sat between Finrod and Thingol. A great cheer rose up as Lúthien and Silevren hurried out to the center of the floor with the lithe grace of pair of deer, bedecked in fine silks, dozens of bracelets, and delicate tinkling headdresses that glimmered with bells, their skin covered in intricate designs done in black kohl, their braids bound in clasps of gold and silver. The drums and instruments came to life in a rhythm as wild as the beating of the forest's heart and they began to dance and sing.

"A very old Sindarin song," Celeborn whispered in Galadriel's ear as servants brought out all manner of roast game, fresh berries, and other delicacies to fill the tables, "a betrothal song." The words were a very old dialect of Doriathrin and Galadriel shook her head, indicating that she did not understand it.

"Tell me what it means," she whispered to him as they watched Lúthien and Silevren leap about in a glimmer of bright silks and jingling bells. Celeborn grinned and leaned close and she felt the tickle of his breath against her ear as he began to speak.

"Listen my beloved to the beat of my love, like a drum,

my love flows unto the sky,

where it shall live even after this world turns to dust.

My beloved, even death could not stop my heart from loving you.

in the shadow of my hair,

your touch and scent lingers.

There is no life without you,

you are in every part of me, flowing like a river,

your lips are sweeter than wine.

In the jingle of my bangles I hear your echo.

In my breath there is the melody of you,

in starlight, there is the glimmer of your eyes.

Your heart beats in my heart, inside me,

in the awakening of your eyes there is only our desire,

and in the moments of my thoughts there is only you."

Galadriel smiled at the words, watching as Lúthien turned and flashed them a grin and a wink as the song finished. "Not a very good translation, I am afraid," Celeborn said with a laugh. "Or at least it does not do justice to the beauty of the original in my opinion."

"There is an almost lustful overtone not just to the words, but to the music as well," Galadriel said with a low laugh.

"Well it is a betrothal song after all," Celeborn said with a grin, his eyes meeting hers and Galadriel smiled coyly, glancing down, her hand tracing a trail across the top of his thigh beneath the table.

"We would not sing such lustful songs in Valinor," she whispered with a teasing grin, her eyes flickering towards his once more.

"We are not in Valinor," Celeborn murmured, " and as for us Sindar, you should know by now to expect such things from us."

"Then I hope that my expectations shall be met when we adjourn to our chambers," Galadriel murmured. Their conversation was cut short by a contrived and overly loud cough from Finrod.

"I hear you over there, Celeborn of Doriath, sweet-talking my favorite sister," Finrod quipped, turning to favor Celeborn with an appraising look and a raised golden brow. The lord of Nargothrond was already well into his cups.

"Your only sister," Galadriel reminded him.

"It was your sister, Finrod, who began to take the conversation into somewhat salacious territory," Celeborn informed his friend.

"You had better watch yourself," Finrod wagged a finger at Celeborn, grinning lopsidedly. "I know what a reputation the sons of Galadhon have and I'll not have Galadriel in the predicament that Inwen found herself in or you shall answer to Finarfin one of these days."

"I assure you I shall not lay a hand on Galadriel," Celeborn laughed, raising his hands in a defensive posture.

"I was rather hoping you would," Galadriel quipped, sipping from her wine.

"Now," the slightly inebriated Finrod said, leaning across the table with a grin, "I expect nieces and nephews very soon."

"And how ought I achieve that without touching her?" Celeborn joked with his soon-to-be brother-in-law.

"Patience brother!" Galadriel hissed. "And really, they aren't so pleasant after all once they reach a certain age. You should see what Nimloth has become like. Only yesterday Inwen asked me to look after her for a moment and all she did was sit at her vanity, sighing loudly, and pouting, and rimming her eyes in horridly thick lines of black kohl all the while complaining about how she was too old to need minding and about how very boring I am."

"Ah yes," Finrod chuckled, "I suppose they do become that way. Orodreth has told me that Finduilas rather fancies herself a 'young lady' now and wants nothing to do with smelly little boys. A prim little thing she has grown into, nothing like the tomboy that you were."

"Oh quiet now!" Galadriel exclaimed, pushing her brother away. Finrod laughed loudly and Celeborn grinned. "The three of you always played such horrible pranks on me!"

"You're lucky, Celeborn, that you don't have any sisters!" Finrod yelped as Galadriel pummeled him with her fists. "Get her off of me!"

"I have been rather fortunate in Galathil," Celeborn said, wrapping his arms around Galadriel's waist and attempting to dissuade her from abusing Felagund. "But I have wondered on occasion if he is worth all the trouble he causes." He caught Galadriel's wrists in his hands.

"Don't think I won't give you a fight too, Celeborn Galadhonion," Galadriel grumbled as she tried and failed to break free of her betrothed's grasp. She gave up at last and allowed Celeborn to enfold her in her arms, contenting herself with making a face and sticking her tongue out at Finrod, who crossed his eyes in response.

"But tell me," Celeborn said with a laugh, "more about Galadriel as a child, for she refuses to tell me the stories herself."

"Ah," Finrod said with a gleam of mischief in his eye, "there were so many things she did that I can hardly fathom where I ought to start."

"You can start with saying nothing," Galadriel shot back but Celeborn and Finrod only laughed all the harder.

"Well there was this one time where the poor nursemaid was trying to bathe her," Finrod said while Galadriel glowered at him, "and Galadriel was maybe five or six years old and she wanted nothing to do with a bath. Instead, she wanted to run down and play in the river but the nursemaid insisted and had managed to get her into the bathtub. That is when Galadriel broke free and, not even bothering to grab a towel, she ran stark naked as a jaybird through the city square, her hair a ratty bird's nest on her head, and down to the river where she rolled about in the mud like a little pig." Celeborn and Finrod burst into laughter while Galadriel renewed her efforts to break free of her beloved's grasp and claw at her brother.

"And then," Finrod said, holding Galadriel's grasping hands still, "there was this cat…"

"No, Finrod!" Galadriel cried. "Not that story!"

"Very well then," Finrod laughed, "I will not tell it if you do me the honor of a dance."

"You leave me no choice," Galadriel snorted, standing and gracing her brother with her hand. Celeborn leaned back into the cushions, listening to the soft sounds of Melian and Thingol conversing to his left, watching as dancers moved amongst the glimmering trees followed by rabbits and deer, looking out at the beauty of this twilight palace where flowers grew in abundance and the brooks ran with clear, crystalline waters. He smiled, watching Galadriel and Finrod sweep about the dance floor, still so clearly in the midst of an argument, thinking that it was rather a relief to see his friend in such high spirits, and hoping beyond hope that this night, rather than the last he had spent sitting by Finrod's side, would be a harbinger of the future.

*****

"It's just that the closer it gets to the wedding the harder it is to wait," Galadriel groaned, slipping the lembas onto a greased tray as Lúthien cut them out. "His eyes, Lúthien, they entice me and the feeling of his skin against mine…"

"Galadriel, there are things about my cousin I do not wish to know!" Lúthien squealed with a grimace and they both laughed.

"I just…" Galadriel sighed happily, "I feel like we have waited so very long and I am eagerly anticipating when we will be joined fully, when this bond that we have shall at last be complete. It seems such a glorious and wonderful thing, two hearts intertwined, his thoughts and feelings moving freely amongst my own. And then…it almost seems like a new beginning in a way, what after losing my brothers and the start of this terrible war. I want to believe that there is a brighter future waiting for us."

"It is so rare that I hear you wax poetic," Lúthien said with a laugh, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "You know, Galadriel, if you go to any of the taverns in this city you will find people betting on whether or not the two of you will actually marry before your wedding, before the year is out. Especially after what Galathil did there is a good deal of speculation."

"Please tell me that you haven't put money on it too," Galadriel groaned, pushing the tray of lembas onto one of the baking racks over the fire and wiping her sleeve across her forehead. The kitchen was furiously hot. Lúthien turned about to face her friend and put her hands on the floury counter, leaning back against it with a sheepish smile. "By the grace of Yavanna you have, haven't you?" Galadriel said.

"Only a little money," Lúthien said, brushing the flour from her hands onto her apron.

"And which side are you on?" Galadriel asked.

"I'm not telling!" Lúthien said with a laugh. "But Galathil has bet that you won't make it the full year."

"I am certain I could wait two full years just to spite Galathil," Galadriel said with a grin. Lúthien smirked. "Oh! You've bet that we will make it a full year!" Galadriel crowed.

"I haven't said anything!" Lúthien said, holding her hands up in a sign of surrender.

"I saw it in your eyes! You bet against Galathil!" Galadriel laughed, wagging a finger at her friend as she took up the rolling pin and went to work on another batch of lembas. Lúthien rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at her friend.

"I'm sorry," Galadriel said in a sudden fit of conscience, worried, reaching out to touch her friend's hand, her eyes concerned. After what you confided in me I hope this talk of marriage and bonds is not too difficult for you. It was thoughtless of me…let us speak of something else…" but her voice trailed off, for Lúthien's mouth had quirked in a small smile and she had blushed like a young maid, her grey eyes secretive.

"I don't feel that way anymore," Lúthien said quietly, turning to the lembas dough that Galadriel had rolled out and beginning to cut it into squares.

"What?" Galadriel hardly dared to believe it, could feel her heart fluttering with excitement for her friend. She turned towards Lúthien, her palms resting on the floured surface of the counter and bent close to her, glancing around to be sure that none of the bakers were listening to their conversation. "Lúthien…is there…someone?" She whispered and Lúthien grinned coyly, biting her lip. Galadriel gasped. "There is, isn't there?" She whispered but Lúthien still said nothing, merely glancing up at her friend with grey eyes full of excitement. "Who is he? Do I know him?" Galadriel begged her tell, her heart filled with anticipation.

"Oh Galadriel," she gasped, as though she had been fit to burst with excitement, "I've just been absolutely dying to tell someone! But you must keep it a secret! I haven't told anyone yet and I'm so afraid Dairon will be jealous and do something wretched!" Galadriel was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as Lúthien, smiling with happiness, took her friend's hands in her own.

"Is it serious?" Galadriel asked her. "Has he spoken to you of love?"

"He has!" Lúthien said, her eyes alight with joy. "Oh Galadriel, he is so wonderful! Whenever I am around him I feel so…oh like I could just fly! I never feel alone when he is with me and I feel so very free, not confined and imprisoned as I used to feel. My whole life has become better because of his influence: my relationships with my friends, with my parents. I do not feel so angry when I am around him, so frustrated, rather, I feel as though my heart is always full of happiness."

"This is wonderful news!" Galadriel exclaimed, suppressing a squeal of joy. "Oh Lúthien, just think of it! Perhaps we shall both be married soon! Our children could grow up together, be playmates!"

"I know!" Lúthien exclaimed. "I've already imagined it! Just think how happy my father will be with so many elflings in the family! He was so excited about Nimloth and now there shall be more! I just…I never thought it would happen for me but now it has and, oh, it is just so wonderful, just what you told me love feels like!"

"Well who is he?" Galadriel asked her. "What is he like? Is he fiercely handsome, charmingly sweet, endearingly romantic?"

"Oh, all of those things!" Lúthien told her, her eyes glimmering with happiness. "He isn't from around here," Lúthien said. "That's why I've been going out into the forest so much recently to dance. Really, I've been meeting him!"

"Oh, so a green elf then, or is he from one of the Sindarin settlements outside the city, one of Nellas's people perhaps?" Galadriel goaded her friend, eager to hear all of the details of Lúthien's secret lover.

"Come with me tonight!" Lúthien exclaimed. "Come with me when I go to him and you can meet him!" Galadriel nodded eagerly. "I was going to leave in a few hours," the princess said, "when I normally meet with him. Do you think you could be ready by then? I do so want him to meet my friends! I am sure he will love all of you!"

"Of course I can be ready!" Galadriel exclaimed.

"But no one can know," Lúthien cautioned her, "not yet. You know, Galadriel, how Dairon is always trying to follow me about. Meet me out by the great beech, and be sure to wear a dark cloak so you aren't seen!"

"I will!" Galadriel promised, her heart brimming with excitement at the thought. Despite all of the sadness of recent years things seemed to be looking up once more. Yes, the defeat at the Dagor Bragollach had been a terrible tragedy, but Doriath had endured for so many ages of the world, had endured the first Battle of Beleriand. Certainly, sorrowful times had come and were still to come, but with Thingol's guidance and Melian's protection they would certainly come into a golden age once more, an age when her, and Inwen, and Venessiel, and Lúthien's children, all of the little princes and princesses of Doriath, would all play together beneath the enchanted sky of this palace and the verdant canopy of the forests of this kingdom.

Galadriel smiled at the thought as she returned to her and Celeborn's rooms, brimming with excitement. The rooms were unusually quiet she thought for a moment and then she recalled that the servants had the day off today. "Celeborn!" She striding past the empty servants quarters and down the corridor. "I'll be going out tonight with…" she paused, realizing that she had received no reply. She would have thought he would be finished with court today. She had entered the main room and looked about but her betrothed was nowhere to be found. "Hmm," she remarked to herself but then her eyes lit upon his desk, where the drawers were all hanging open and in great disarray, and noticed a scrap of parchment on the top of the desk.

G,

Thingol sent for me - some problem about the granaries. Be back soon.

Love,

C

Galadriel bit her lip and grinned, her fingers lingering on that bit of parchment, recalling how he had held her in his arms this morning. She pushed the drawers back in and made sure that everything was neat and tidy for him. Celeborn could be messy on occasion but he was not usually untidy and so she assumed that he must have been in a great rush to leave upon receiving Thingol's summons. Surely, he would be tired when he returned. She sighed with a small smile as she unpinned her apron and folded it, setting it on a chair, and stretched her arms, pondering what she ought to wear on this midnight escapade.

She moved to her vanity, taking out her pearl earrings, reaching to put them away, but her fingers grasped at air and she looked down, suddenly cautious. Her jewelry box was not quite where she had left it this morning. Ordinarily she might not have noticed such a thing, for as she looked at it now it had only been moved an inch or so from where she was certain it had been, but Celeborn had gifted her these earrings only a few hours before and she distinctly remembered opening her jewelry box to find them there, the happiness she had felt, Celeborn explaining that they had been his mother's. Slowly, with a furrowed brow, she put the earrings back in her ears now, afraid to leave them alone in this room, for the thought was beginning to dawn on her that maybe someone had moved her jewelry box, maybe someone else had been rooting through Celeborn's desk…maybe they had been robbed. She hardly dared to believe it.

She opened her jewelry box in a near panic, but everything was there: all her jewels from Tirion, the sapphire that Celeborn had given her, the hair combs from Angrod and Aegnor. She shut the box and moved to Celeborn's wardrobe, opening the top drawer where she knew his jewelry and his crowns were kept, but none of it was missing either. And then, confused, she turned about, scanning the room for evidence of an intrusion. It would have been difficult to notice, and she could tell that someone had tried to put things back as best as they were able, but there were a few things out of place. Still, it looked as though someone had tried to throw everything back together rather quickly and, as that thought dawned upon her, so did another, the thought that she had unwittingly interrupted the burglary and that whoever had done this might still be in the suite of rooms.

Though Galadriel was usually of a rather intrepid constitution, the thought frightened her, for whoever had attempted to rob the crown prince of Doriath must be a very bold person indeed, someone unafraid of punishment. She moved back to her vanity, glancing about for signs of movement, and slipped the fruit knife that Celeborn had given her so long ago from the top drawer, removing it from its sheath and clasping the hilt tightly in her hand. She swallowed hard.

"Hello?" She called in a firm voice. "If you are here you had best show yourself!" She moved from the dressing room back into the main room, glancing about, weaving carefully in between the stone trees. The fire was cold and there was no sign of movement. Keeping her back to the wall she crept up the steps to the bed but no one was there either. "Come out!" She called. "I command you!" Still there was not a single sound in reply. And, with slow and cautious movements, she began to move down the hallway to the room where Celeborn kept his weapons and armor, where his greenhouse was as well. She had made it half way down that hall when, suddenly, she heard the clatter of footsteps across the ground and turned back the way she had come, darting down the hallway.

A figure completely concealed by a large black cape had emerged from the dressing room that she had only just been in and was headed with all haste for the door. "STOP!" Galadriel shouted. "I command you to stop!" But whoever it was had thrown a chair in her path and she tripped over it in her haste, falling to the ground with a crash, watching as the cloaked figure escaped down the corridor and through the door. Galadriel pulled herself to her feet, charging after the person, but the fall had cost her valuable time and, by the time that she burst out into the corridor, the intruder was gone, or else he or she had been lost in the bustle of people that seemed to perpetually clog the corridors these days with all of the construction going on.

A few of them stopped to glance at her wondering, no doubt, what it was that had her so flustered. It could have been any of them, Galadriel thought, scanning their faces. It could have been any of them. She could not fathom who would do such a thing…or why. "Guards!" She cried, and people began to look about, alarmed now, as a hubbub of conversation began to warm the air. "Guards!" She called again, her heart still beating wildly in her chest, and, fortunately, there seemed to have been some nearby, for they came running at the sound of her voice, three wardens in uniform.

"Lady Ambassador," one of them called out, a worried look on his face and Galadriel recognized him as Glindor, one of Celeborn's lieutenants. "Is something the matter?" He asked as they approached.

"Someone has robbed us," she said, pointing with a trembling finger towards the door she had just exited, hardly able to believe the words that had just crossed her lips.

"You and Prince Celeborn?" Glindor asked, seeming exceedingly surprised. Galadriel nodded.

"Whoever it was just escaped," she said, "but I did not see which way they went. They were wearing a dark cape; that is all I know. I did not get a look at them." Glindor nodded and Galadriel suddenly felt extraordinarily embarrassed that she had not managed to catch the intruder, or even to get a good look at him or her.

"Nothing else?" He asked. "Were they tall or short?"

"Just…average height I think," Galadriel told him. Glindor nodded again and turned to his two wardens.

"Go find the Prince and alert him to what has happened," he told one. And to the other he said, "alert the palace guards and have them canvas the city for anyone looking suspicious and wearing a dark cape." As Galadriel heard him give the orders she became even more aware of how poor a descriptor a person of average height in a dark cape was.

"I am sorry that I couldn't get a better look," she said, feeling ashamed.

"It is not your fault," Glindor told her. "Indeed, I am grateful that you are unharmed. What is missing?"

"I…I don't know," Galadriel told him. "The jewels, the money all seems untouched, though I noticed my jewelry box had been moved. The drawers of Celeborn's desk were open. There were a few things that were not in their usual places, which is how I noticed that someone must have broken in. As I began to search for the intruder, they stole from their hiding place and escaped. Shall…shall we go in and I will show you what was disturbed?" Galadriel asked, feeling very shaken still. Glindor shook his head.

"Not until more wardens arrive," he said. "There could still be thieves hidden inside who might seek to make their escape or do us harm should we enter alone. Where were the prince's servants?"

"It is their day off," Galadriel told him.

"And yours?" He asked her and she shook her head.

"I…I don't have a handmaiden," she stammered.

"Perhaps it would be safer in the future to not leave your rooms unattended," Glindor told her, "then again, perhaps it was a servant who sought to steal. Most burglaries of this nature, sadly enough, do tend to be servants stealing from their employers."

"We've just always felt so safe here…in Menegroth," Galadriel said, looking down at her shoes.

"Galadriel!" Celeborn cried, sprinting down the corridor, accompanied by Mablung and a troupe of wardens, and Galadriel and Glindor looked up in surprise.

"Celeborn?" She said as he took her hands in his. It was obvious to him that something was the matter and she could see he was concerned. "How did you know so quickly?"

"Know what?" He asked.

"There…there was a robber," Galadriel said, still trying to piece together what was happening.

"You are unhurt?" Celeborn looked into her eyes with concern.

"Yes," she said, as Mablung and the wardens carefully made their way into the rooms. She could not shake the feeling of shame and embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm her. More than that, it was the feeling of invasion, that a place she had once considered safe was safe no longer. "How…Glindor only sent a warden after you a moment ago…"

"I though Thingol had summoned me," he began.

"Yes, to the granaries, I know," she replied. "I saw your note." He shook his head, his eyes hard.

"It was a farce," he whispered. "Thingol never summoned me. I went to the granaries and they had no idea why I was there so then I went to the King and he said that he never summoned me at all."

"Someone lured you away?" Galadriel whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Celeborn nodded grimly.

"That was what I began to suspect," he murmured, "which is why I called for Mablung and rushed back here as soon as I was able. It appears my suspicions were justified."

"Who would do such a thing?" Galadriel asked but Celeborn only took a deep breath and shook his head.

"I have no idea," he said. "Did they take anything?"

"I don't know," Galadriel told him. Her hands were still trembling and Celeborn rubbed them. "I don't think so."

"You're shaking," he whispered, worried.

"It's just…it feels so violating to be robbed," she said.

"You are unhurt," he said, "and that is the important thing."

"Your Highness, Lady Galadriel," Mablung had emerged and they turned towards him. "There is no one still here. Could I ask the both of you to come in and search your belongings very carefully to see if anything is missing?"

"You're sure nothing is missing?" Mablung asked them half an hour later and they both nodded.

"Nothing at all," Celeborn said. "It seems that some of my papers and ledgers had been sorted through but nothing was missing at all."

"I am certain that nothing was taken," Galadriel said.

"Very well," Mablung said with a sigh, placing his hands on his hips. "Well," he said, "this is certainly a serious matter that someone has attempted to rob the two of you but, unfortunately, I fear we do not have enough information to give us any leads unless something else turns up. We will be sure to question all of your servants this evening though, Your Highness." Celeborn nodded.

"I can't imagine that any of them would have done it," he said. "I pay them very well and all of them have served me for many centuries."

"Still," Mablung said, "it is a possibility and, at the moment it is the only potential lead that we have."

"Very well," Celeborn told him.

"I will have the patrols doubled in this part of the city," Mablung assured them. "And, I would advise that you not leave your rooms unattended. This thief is skilled at picking locks and he or she may try to return as it appears they did not succeed in getting whatever they came to steal. Lady Galadriel, I would advise you to seek the services of a handmaiden so that your things will be looked after when you are not at home." Galadriel nodded.

They both let out a deep sigh as soon as Mablung had left and they had shut the door. "How very strange," Celeborn mused, throwing himself down on the bed. "I wonder why they didn't take anything?"

"It must be as Mablung said," Galadriel told him, going to her wardrobe to retrieve a cloak. It was nearly time for her to meet Lúthien and she tried to put the unhappy thoughts from her mind, to regain the excitement she had felt not so long ago. "I interrupted them and thereby prevented them from taking whatever it was they sought."

"Maybe they came searching for information," Celeborn said pensively, "but I can't fathom what they would be after. Those ledgers are just recordings of the goings on of the council and, anyway, they are all archived in the library within a year. Anyone might be able to go there and read them; they aren't secret."

"Perhaps they were after something of mine," Galadriel said, "but I can't imagine what. I haven't any secrets, the only papers I keep are letters from my brothers, and they seemed uninterested in my jewelry."

"Are you going somewhere?" Celeborn asked her, noting the cape over her arm and Galadriel nodded.

"Oh, yes," she waved her hand dismissively, "some dancing party in the forest I agreed to go to with Lúthien. I'll be back shortly I expect."

"You're not dressed for dancing," Celeborn said with a grin.

"Well I hardly feel like it now," Galadriel said. "I'll just be content with watching Lúthien."

"You could cancel," Celeborn told her and Galadriel knew that he was worried that the burglary had upset her. More than that, she suspected that he wanted her to come to bed with him.

"No, I promised her," Galadriel said with a sigh. She did want to go meet Lúthien's suitor, but the matter of the burglary was, sadly, preoccupying her mind.

"Mablung is right, you know," Celeborn said. "You ought to hire a handmaiden to take care of things here. A handmaiden would know immediately if anything of yours had been taken or moved. And besides, she would be around so often that the likelihood of anyone sneaking in would be greatly diminished."

"I know," Galadriel sighed again, fastening her cloak, "I just can't imagine who I would ask."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Celeborn said, standing and descending the stairs from the bed to plant a kiss on her forehead before she slipped away.

"I'm so sorry," Galadriel said, approaching Lúthien, who was standing nervously in the shadows of the great beech tree. "I hope you weren't waiting long. There was a thief."

"In your and Celeborn's rooms?" Lúthien asked, her eyes going wide in surprise. "Are you unhurt? Did they take anything?"

"Yes and no," Galadriel said. "But never mind that, let us go."

"I simply can't imagine who would do such a thing," Lúthien mused, drawing her cape about her more tightly, as they passed into the Forest of Region.

"Neither can I," Galadriel confided, furrowing her brow. "I cannot even puzzle out what they might have been after, or who; it could just have easily been targeted at me as Celeborn."

"It is probably nothing sinister, perhaps a servant," Lúthien said, laying a comforting hand on her friend's arm as they walked. "It is not so uncommon for people to get greedy sometimes. An unfortunate fact of life, but we all have our vices."

"Yes, of course," Galadriel murmured, though she did not quite share Lúthien's optimism nor did she quite concur with this same conclusion that both Lúthien and Mablung had drawn about servants stealing. Of course, she had no proof, but something deep in her gut was telling her that there was something odd about this burglary, something very odd…and something very sinister. She shivered and shut her eyes tightly for a moment, willing away the visions of Menegroth's streams flowing with blood that had crept into her mind.

"Are you alright?" Lúthien asked her, having sensed her friend's strange mood.

"Don't worry about me," Galadriel said with a small smile. "It is just the burglary that has me worried still. But let us forget about it, for I am ever so eager to meet your suitor and I am not about to allow some thief to ruin this splendid evening. And so, speaking on more pleasant matters, they walked for a little while until they came to a secluded glade filled with dappled moonlight where the stars themselves seemed to be dancing in the heavens above.

"How lovely!" Galadriel laughed, spinning about. "Do you always meet him here?" Lúthien nodded with a grin.

"Isn't it romantic?" She sighed in happiness.

"It is!" Galadriel exclaimed in excitement, moving forward to clasp her friend's hands in her own, listening to the song of the nightingales perched all about them in elm and beech.

"You are certain we were not followed?" Lúthien asked, looking worried, and Galadriel nodded.

"I am sure of it," she affirmed.

"The night I first saw him," Lúthien said, pacing away, arms crossed over her chest, "I was with Dairon and he fled, frightened but I…I delayed, for some reason that even I cannot rightfully discern. Curiosity got the better of me I suppose."

"As ever," Galadriel said with a laugh and Lúthien smiled, turning back towards her friend.

"I couldn't help it!" Lúthien laughed. "I had to come back, to investigate for myself, and that is when we met. But now…I worry that Dairon suspects something. On a time I almost thought that I had sensed him, watching us."

"Do not concern yourself with his jealous heart," Galadriel advised her. "You have made your choice and now he must respect it." Lúthien smiled thankfully and reached out, squeezing her friend's hand. "When will he come?" Galadriel whispered in anticipation.

"Soon!" Lúthien said with a grin. "Wait. I shall summon him. Watch this!" And, having so said, she stepped forth onto the grassy knoll in the center of that glade, swaying in the moonlight as a reed in the breeze, slowly beginning a dance so beautiful that Galadriel knew, for all the Valar's training, she would never be able to match it.

Then Lúthien began to sing, her voice as clear and piercing and beautiful as a nightingale's song, her shadowy hair a ribbon of black about her fair face, her eyes, gray as the dusk, turned up to the stars.

Even the blossoming flowers,

Soon scatter on the breeze,

who in our world

is unchanging?

And then came, as if from a dream, a man's voice answering, singing:

Crossing to the yonder side

Of deep mountains

We shall never drift away

In the world of shallow dreams.

"Beren!" Lúthien called and Galadriel started at the sound of that name, for it was familiar to her, and then, a dark-haired man with a beard stepped forward from the woods.

"Tinúviel!" He cried with joy and Lúthien leapt forward into his arms, embracing him, but Galadriel stood still in shock, for this was no elf, but a human man and, unless she was mistaken, this was the same Beren who was a dear friend of Finrod, who had helped to save her brother's life. She found her heart overwhelmed not just with the love that he and Lúthien bore each other and with her own happiness at her friend's delight, but with a sense of gratitude so deep that it brought tears to her eyes. Then Beren turned, having noticed Galadriel at last, and stared at her in wonder and delight.

"Surely," he said with a broad smile, striding forward to take Galadriel's hands, "you must be Galadriel, dearest sister of Finrod Felagund and wife of Celeborn of Doriath, Lúthien's cousin. You bear such a strong resemblance to your brother that you could almost be twins."

There were so many things Galadriel wanted to say to him, so many that they tumbled over each other in her mind and, when she opened her mouth, what came out was, "he always says I am his dearest sister but, as his only sister, I find I have little competition."

Beren laughed long and hard at that and then said, "well I can easily discern why you and Celeborn have married, for though I have only met him that once, I was particularly struck by his brand of dry humor and, it seems, you possess the same."

"You are not wrong in that," Galadriel replied, "but Celeborn and I have not yet married." And yet she smiled, for though she had just met Beren, he had some charisma about him that made you feel as though he was an old and dear friend to whom you might speak openly about anything. She could easily see why Lúthien loved him, and why he loved her.

"Have you not?" Beren asked. "I am sorry to hear that. Forgive me. It seems I am always wrong in my assumptions. Indeed, when first I met your betrothed I mistook him for Thingol." At that they laughed and seated themselves upon the soft clover there. "Er…he is still your betrothed is he not, or have I misspoken again?" Beren asked, looking somewhat abashed.

"He is," Galadriel said with a laugh. "And mistaking him for Thingol is an easy thing to do, for not only is his personality remarkably similar to his uncle's, but they look very much alike as well."

"Is that so?" Beren said, rubbing his chin, his eyes full of curiosity. "I should very much like to meet Thingol one day."

"And so you shall," Lúthien said with a smile, patting his hand.

"Will you marry soon then?" Beren asked. "I hope you do not begrudge me my curiosity. It is only that an engagement of ten years would be a thing unheard of amongst my people, given our limited life spans." He cracked a grin. "Surely you must be rather impatient?"

Galadriel laughed at his frankness. He has such an easy way with words that it seemed they had skipped right over formal introductions and fallen into conversation more easily than she would ever have believed. "Believe me, I am," she said. "We had intended to marry ten years ago, but then my brothers died and my people have a custom that we do not marry during mourning. Besides, I could never have enjoyed my wedding while my heart still ached for Angrod and Aegnor, and Celeborn was very busy helping Thingol to prepare Doriath's response to the newly awakened threat. But we shall marry in a year's time."

"I am glad to hear it," Beren said, and she had no doubt that he meant it. "But at the same time I am very saddened, for I feel that this is all my fault and I would apologize to you for the grief I have caused. Had my father and I arrived to the battle sooner, had we been able to save Angrod and Aegnor, none of this suffering would have been necessary on your part."

"Not at all!" Galadriel exclaimed, surprised that the man she was so thankful to for his part in saving Finrod could blame himself for the deaths of Angrod and Aegnor. "Indeed, I owe you a debt greater than I could ever repay, even had I all the coffers of jewels in Valinor. For Finrod's life is worth more to me than even Fëanor's cursed Silmarils and had I lost all three of my brothers on that fateful day my spirit would undoubtedly have passed to Mandos's halls out of grief, even as Miriel's did. Though my grief at the passing of Aegnor and Angrod was great, it is thanks to you that I retain some measure of happiness."

"You do me too much honor," Beren told her, shaking his head with humility.

"I do not do you enough honor," Galadriel said, bowing her head to him and then, curious, she found herself staring at him in wonder, for he was, after all, the first human that she had ever laid eyes on. Beren laughed, realizing what it was that had her so astounded.

"You elves are a curious folk indeed," Beren said then.

"I hope it does not seem an ignorant thing to ask," Galadriel said, "but how old are you?"

"No," Beren said, "it is a very natural thing to be curious about for one who has never met a human before. I am 33, nearly 34." Galadriel's eyes went wide with shock and Beren laughed again.

"Amongst our people you will still be an adolescent in both mind and body," she said, "but I can see that you are fully grown, unless I am mistaken. Indeed, Celeborn thought you were at least 50."

"Oh dear, do I look so very old?" Beren said with a great laugh and Lúthien grinned. "But you are correct, I am fully grown. My people are usually full grown by their early twenties."

"That is astonishing," Galadriel said, nodding eagerly. "I must say that in some respects I am very envious of your people, for adolescence is a time that is dreaded by elven parents, seeing as how very long it continues." Indeed, Inwen and Galathil were currently experiencing the troubles associated with raising an adolescent elfling as Nimloth was now nearly 18 years of age and many a night had she overheard Galathil groaning and moaning to his brother about the things his daughter was getting up to.

"In that respect I must agree that my people have the advantage," Beren said with a laugh. They sat there speaking and laughing until the sun had nearly begun to crest the horizon and then Galadriel and Lúthien took their leave, promising to return soon and to bring Celeborn if they were able.

"I wonder," Galadriel said as she and Lúthien made their way back to Menegroth, "what the Valar shall do about your situation?"

"I have wondered as well," Lúthien said. "But Beren has fought valiantly against Morgoth, in the interest of the Valar, I cannot fathom that they would be so cold as to deny our union or to refuse him the fate of the elves. Besides, my mother is beloved by them and I cannot imagine they would have any less love for me, or for any of us."

Galadriel nodded, not wishing to destroy Lúthien's hopes, and, indeed, she had liked Beren very much and esteemed his character, but she knew from personal experience that there were a great many people who opposed all unions they saw as unequal, for there were still those, both Sindar and Noldor, who would rather not see her wed Celeborn. And, though attitudes towards the mingling of Calaquendi and Moriquendi had become somewhat more relaxed, she remembered how when she had first arrived in Middle Earth the idea of such a union had been seen as an aberration, nay, worse than that, most had seen it as unnatural, a disgusting perversion. She had little doubt that many in Menegroth would take the same attitude towards Lúthien's new lover. She thought of Aegnor and of his beloved Andreth, wondered if the woman was still alive, wished that she could meet her, consult her on this matter.

"You are worried," Lúthien said softly. "Do you disapprove? I…I had thought that you of all people would understand. I know…I know it may cause trouble Galadriel. I am not naïve, but I was hoping for your support."

"No," Galadriel said, "it is not that. Indeed, I approve very much. I have heard nothing but praise of Beren from both Finrod and from you. Besides, having met him I found I liked him very much. I was only remembering how so many people opposed my union with Celeborn at first because he is a Sinda and I am a Noldo. So I worried for you that you might encounter such opposition. And then, I thought of Aegnor and of Andreth and wished that they could have married, as you and Beren plan to do. Perhaps we ought to seek her out, find out if she is still alive, for Finrod told me she is very wise and she is the only other elf I have heard of who has fallen in love with a human. It may be that she has some advice."

"Ah," Lúthien said and then she brightened, smiling and clasping Galadriel's hand tightly. "Don't worry, Galadriel," she said, "whatever hearts stand against me I will change and inspire. And besides, the people who truly love us want us to be happy don't they? So then I shall have you, and Celeborn, and my mother and father, and Galathil, and Oropher, and everyone else I care about. So you see, I shan't worry about the naysayers at all. As for Andreth, I like your idea very much. Let us see if anyone has heard anything about her and, if so, then I would be grateful for any insight she might offer and I am sure that my parents would be thankful as well."

"All of my servants are innocent, or so it seems," Celeborn said at the sound of Galadriel entering the room, without bothering to look up from the tree that he was examining so closely. She had found him in the furthermost room from the entry to his chambers: the small greenhouse that one reached by passing first through the main area, then down the corridor, then through the study and the armory. Galadriel smiled, leaning against the doorway, watching as he cupped his hands around the base of the small tree, closing his eyes and whispering words of encouragement. It was pleasant to see him so at ease for once, devoid of the worries and tensions that had plagued him these past ten years.

"I've been thinking," Galadriel said, "that it must have been aimed at me – the burglary."

"Oh?" Celeborn asked curiously, standing and meeting her gaze as he brushed soil from his hands and bid his plants adieu before they moved to the bedchamber and began to prepare for sleep.

"Just a…a feeling," she said with a sigh. "I had thought that you would be in bed already." He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and Galadriel sat cross-legged behind him, beginning to brush his silver hair. She ran her hands through it, watching the strands of silver like moonlight and shadows slip through her fingers.

"I was worried about you, that this attempted burglary had upset you," Celeborn said with concern. "I beg you not concern yourself with this. I shall have a guard posted outside the entry, have new locks installed…"

"It's not that…I…" Galadriel paused, shaking her golden head and setting the hairbrush down on the bed. Celeborn turned around to look at her, sitting cross-legged across from her. To be perfectly honest she had no idea whatsoever of what she ought to say. Each thing seemed as preposterous as the next. It was Celeborn who decided.

"So what were you really doing out there in the forest?" He asked and yet, as his eyes met hers, she could see in their depths that he was merely amused, not angered. He grinned and stretched his arms. And Galadriel found that, rather than wishing to hide this from him, there was nothing more she wished to do than tell him everything, for she was deeply worried and troubled for Lúthien and she hardly had any idea what to think, much less feel. Sharing it with Celeborn, she knew, would relieve both her heart and mind of the heavy burden she now carried.

"Of course you knew," she said with a grin, shaking her head. Celeborn chuckled.

"Of course I did," he replied.

"Valar," she groaned, throwing herself down on the bed and stretching her long legs out.

"That bad?" Celeborn asked, bemused, lying down on his side beside her.

"Worse," Galadriel murmured, taking her hands away from her face as Celeborn propped his head up on his hand, elbow planted firmly in the bed. "Thingol is going to be so very furious that Glaurung will look nothing more than a puppy next to his wrath."

"What have you gone and done now?" Celeborn grinned down at her and Galadriel sat up, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Why must you always assume it is me?" Galadriel asked.

"I rather thought you had earned the reputation of troublemaker," Celeborn replied and she glared at him. "Peace!" He cried, fending off her attacking fists, "I meant it not!"

"You're not going to go running to Thingol if I tell you?" She asked and now it was Celeborn's turn to give her a suspicious look.

"Certainly not," he said, "and if it is something I think you should tell him I would drag you to him myself, kicking and screaming all the way. Has Lúthien done something?"

Galadriel nodded. "Well it isn't really that she has done anything, or at least not anything wrong. It is just that it is something that I fear will make Thingol very, very, upset."

"Let me guess," Celeborn said, wiggling his eyebrows, "she has run off to live with the ents, taking her absurdly large pack of crazy hound dogs with her."

"Not that," Galadriel said with a laugh, shaking her head.

"Dammit," Celeborn swore, "those things are always stealing food from my plate. Well then, has she taken a leaf out of Galathil's book, married in secret to Mablung and become pregnant with his child?"

"Poor Mablung!" Galadriel chided him, elbowing her betrothed. "You lot are always teasing him, and so unfairly! Besides, I could never imagine the two of them together." Celeborn chuckled.

"Mablung gives as good as he gets, I assure you," he told her. "Whatever it is, I am sure that is nothing new. Indeed, Lúthien and Thingol have been at each other's throats since as long as I can remember. Some relationships are just that way. It does not necessarily mean that any love is lost between the two of them. In fact, in my opinion, it only serves to illustrate how very much like her father my cousin is: always dreaming up wild schemes that she is hell-bent on carrying out, for better or for worse."

"Celeborn," Galadriel said, turning to look him in the eyes, "do you remember all of the dreadful things that people had to say about us when we first started courting so very long ago."

"Curufin was polite enough to remind me of them recently," Celeborn told her cheekily.

"How very like him," Galadriel said, rolling her eyes, "how very like all of my cousins and, Celeborn, if for some reason you were ever to meet my father… well of course he isn't," she shook her head and sighed, "he isn't unwise, and he isn't so close-minded, and he isn't…well he isn't as bigoted and hateful as my cousins but…"

"But he would not like the idea of you being wedded to a Moriquendi," Celeborn finished her sentence for her and Galadriel shut her eyes in embarrassment. It sounded like such a horrible thing to say; it was such a horrible thing to say.

"I hate that word," she whispered.

"Moriquendi?" Celeborn asked, shrugging. "I find I am growing used to it."

"Celeborn," she met his gaze once more, "my father, he would fight it, he wouldn't like it…at first, but I know, I know that he would grow to love you as I have, given time."

"I know," Celeborn said with a smile, kissing the top of her head. "He is your father after all, and Finrod's, Aegnor's, Angrod's. He must be doing something right." Galadriel chuckled. "Finrod didn't like it either," he mused, "when we first started courting. Sometimes I even wondered if it bothered you." Galadriel blushed in shame.

"It wasn't that I didn't desire you, that I didn't esteem you, that I didn't respect you or relish your company and the touch of your hand," she murmured. "It was that I…I felt ashamed of myself for enjoying something, someone who I had been taught was not my equal," she twisted her hands in her lap. "But you were, you are my equal, and it shocked me, surprised me in ways I could never have imagined."

"I know," Celeborn said with a quiet laugh, planting another kiss atop her golden head. "And you can rest assured that it doesn't bother me in the slightest. I know who I am. It doesn't bother me if others don't. What I am really wondering is what you mean to convey with all of this."

"I just meant that we came from such different places and cultures but we still managed to build something wonderful," Galadriel said.

"Yes, I certainly think so," Celeborn replied with a satisfied smile. "And we shall build something more wonderful still."

"So then if Lúthien has fallen in love with someone so very different from her, even if people oppose the union at first, even if Thingol is as irate as my father would be if he were to meet you, do you think that things would turn out alright in the end? Do you think that Thingol could learn to love him? Do you think that your people could learn to accept him, for Lúthien's sake?"

"And has she?" Celeborn asked quietly. "Has she fallen in love with such a man?" Galadriel nodded.

"You've met him," she murmured, almost fearfully.

"I thought you said they were different," Celeborn said with a smile but Galadriel only looked at him questioningly. "Beren son of Barahir is more like Lúthien than anyone I have ever met," Celeborn said by way of explanation.

"You know?" Galadriel gasped, startled and Celeborn shook his head.

"A guess. Do you know," Celeborn said with a laugh, "when I first met him I was in the midst of a man to man duel with Curufin, who was in one of his more psychotic episodes, with the arrows of my army pointed directly at the arrows of your cousins' army, and I had just broken Curufin's wrist. Indeed, in that instant I feared very much that war would surely waken between our peoples and Beren just rode up as if nothing were wrong at all, with so much confidence, insinuating himself so pleasantly between two armies that wanted nothing more than to kill each other, and so cheerfully, in such a remarkably simple and nonchalant fashion he managed to lay centuries old tensions to rest as if it were no more difficult than separating two squabbling toddlers. It reminded me so much of my cousin that I said to myself, 'if she ever meets this man they shall certainly be a force to contend with.'"

"You never told me Curufin drew on you, or that you dueled him!" Galadriel exclaimed, glaring at her lover.

"I didn't want you to worry," Celeborn said, kissing her temple, but Galadriel shoved him away, annoyed, before gradually inching closer to him once more.

"Then I overheard her arguing with Dairon about it one day and I knew she had been sneaking out lately, indeed, I had made excuses to Thingol for her myself, though I knew not her purpose, but I began to suspect that it was a romantic one, for she was blushing, and sighing, and acting so very coy just as you used to act when I was first interested in you and you in me."

"I never blushed or sighed or played coy!" Galadriel protested.

"Oh yes you did," Celeborn said dismissively but Galadriel dug her fingers into his sides in retribution.

"You never remember things the way they really happened!" She exclaimed as Celeborn batted her offending hands away.

"Then, when you began all your talk of differences I truly began to suspect. But surely he must be inside the girdle, or you would have been gone far longer."

"It seems he entered of his own accord," Galadriel said, "though how that is possible I do not know."

"Perhaps Melian has her own reasons," Celeborn said. "I do not pretend to understand everything that she does and I know that she and Thingol have been arguing very much lately over his treatment of Lúthien."

"Will…will Thingol be upset do you think?" Galadriel asked and Celeborn sighed.

"Most definitely," he said, "but I cannot fathom what he will do. Only I think the timing is very inconvenient, for he is not in a very good state of mind of late, what with the war to worry about and your cousins growing so aggressive. He might lash out at her, but the extent or degree I could not myself predict. Melian I would presume to be more forgiving. She can soften the King's heart, perhaps, but he has not been in the mood lately to listen to her counsel, or mine for that matter."

"What do you think will become of them?" Galadriel asked. "It is unheard of for a an elf to marry a mortal. But surely, you do not think that the Valar…that they would force Lúthien to endure a short mortal life do you? I…I do not myself think them very merciful but…"

"If you think them unmerciful then I think them more so," Celeborn said somberly. "They forsook my people, abandoning us to a life of pain and suffering in this world." Galadriel shook her head as if to clear the dark thoughts away.

"What's the use in talking about problems we cannot solve," she said with a sigh, moving beneath the covers and Celeborn followed.

"I find myself thinking that that thought applies to nearly everything lately," Celeborn groaned, leaning over to blow out the candles, and they lay side by side watching the faint glow of the enchanted ceiling overhead as it began to turn to dawn. "I am growing so frustrated with all of this, with the seeming futility of this war, with Thingol's stubbornness, with Doriath's isolationist policies…"

"Are you saying that you think Thingol ought to join the war?" Galadriel asked, turning on her side towards him. "That's rather different than what you said when the Noldor first came."

"Not necessarily. Of course," Celeborn said, "I understand Thingol's position. It seems that this war is impossible to win so what is the use of throwing our lives away only to be defeated when we might remain safe within the girdle? And then tensions between the Avari, the Green Elves, and my people have been so terrible this past decade since the Dagor Bragollach. Even if we could convince the Green Elves to fight there would almost certainly be dissent within certain ranks of the army. Then there is the fact that some of the Sindar are furious that Thingol has allowed so many to enter within the girdle. They say that the Green Elves and the Avari have stolen their farmland, stolen jobs from Sindar. If Thingol were to go to war those Sindar would be upset that he was fighting wars abroad rather than fixing the problems within this kingdom. But most of all, no one in this kingdom wants to fight alongside kinslayers, alongside the sons of Fëanor and I cannot say that I blame them for it."

"Neither do I," Galadriel said. "It really is a political mess isn't it, Celeborn?"

"It is," he said, drawing her into his arms, "and I cannot blame Thingol for not wishing to enter the foray. Indeed, I agree with him on that. Yet, I have lived in this world long enough to know that I ought not expect any hope from the Valar and so I think that if we do not do something about Morgoth then no one will."

"Our current position seems an untenable one to me," he continued. "The Noldor cannot possibly win without Doriath's military support and even then it might very well all end in ruin. Yet if we stay within the girdle, content to allow the Noldor to be defeated by Morgoth, then what shall become of us once they are gone? Morgoth will only continue to grow in power unabated and it may be that sooner or later he will find a way to breach the girdle. So as much as I appreciate the logic that the Sindar are in no position to fight, it seems to me that if we do enter the war it may be the lesser of the evils. At any rate, personally, I can't abide just sitting by and not trying to do something about it." He felt Galadriel grin against the skin beneath the open collar of his nightshirt.

"Having lived all these years in Middle Earth I might have thought that you Sindar would be so fatalistic about it all," she said, "and who could blame you if you were, what with all you have endured here. And yet you have far more hope. You're rather like weeds that keep growing up despite all efforts to stomp them down."

"That we are," Celeborn said with a laugh before he and Galadriel both drifted off to the world of dreams.

Galadriel nervously rested her hands on the edge of the laundry counter, craning her neck to see back into the labyrinthine laundries, where the air was steamy from the heated water and the laundresses were bustling about with baskets and baskets of clothes.

*****

"No ticket, no laundry," a short laundress said, scowling up at Galadriel, and the Noldo wondered if it was a job requirement that laundresses be surly. She had yet to meet a friendly one. Then again, seeing as Paniel was the chief laundress now, it really was no surprise that she had hired people who were just as unpleasant as she was.

"I'm not here about laundry," she said. "I was rather hoping that I could speak to Paniel if she is here." The short laundress scowled and sighed as though this were the dreariest thing she could ever have been tasked with before she bustled back into the laundry. She emerged a few moments later with Paniel in tow. The golden-haired Sinda grinned wickedly at Galadriel, with a look on her face that was unsettlingly reminiscent of a cat about to devour a canary, and rested her elbows on the counter.

"Never thought I'd see the day when you sought out your punishment, little Miss crowned-with-radiance. Still angry about your dingy whites are you? I told you that if you raised our salaries I would take care of that little problem for you. But my salary still has not gone up. You have to adjust for inflation, Galadriel, or hasn't anyone on the King's council learned that yet."

"Well how would you like to make 500 pieces of silver a week instead?" Galadriel asked, pleased to see Paniel's jaw drop. Yet the flaxen haired Sinda only stared in surprise for a few moments before her eyes narrowed and she stared at Galadriel suspiciously.

"You want me to do some sort of horrid job, something that your precious little, pure little Noldorin self could never stoop to doing, don't you?" She asked.

"No, I assure you that is not it," Galadriel said.

"Then you want me to do something incriminating," Paniel accused her. "I know how your little Noldorin minds work."

"No!" Galadriel protested.

"Then you are trying to put me in some sort of position where you can ridicule me and make my life horrible and ruin me," Paniel said adamantly.

"No!" Galadriel exclaimed. "Paniel, I am asking you to be my handmaiden." Paniel's mouth had fallen open once more and she gaped at Galadriel in shock before she remembered that she was supposed to act tough. The other laundresses had gasped and Galadriel knew they were fiercely jealous of Paniel in that moment. Paniel knew it too and allowed herself a small grin of victory before she turned back to the junior laundresses.

"What are you standing around staring for?" She barked at them. "Back to work, peasants!" They obeyed, scurrying back to their duties.

"See, I was right," Paniel gloated, folding her arms over her chests. "You want me to do some horrible job I will despise."

"Paniel, most servants never are offered such a prestigious and well-paying position," Galadriel said, genuinely surprised that the Sinda would consider turning down such a good offer.

"You see, Galadriel, the problem is not that I will be a handmaiden," Paniel explained, "it is that I will be your handmaiden and I thought we had already established how very much I dislike you." Galadriel rolled her eyes. "I am afraid I will have to refuse, your worshipfulness," Paniel said mockingly with a flourish of her hand as she made to return to work.

"You cannot be serious!" Galadriel exclaimed, practically leaning over the counter as Paniel retreated lazily. "Paniel, I am offering you 500 pieces of silver a week and a room of your own. Have you forgotten that I live with the Prince Celeborn? Your room will be in the royal district of the city!" Paniel did not turn back around. "You only make 300 coppers a day! How can you refuse 500 silver?" Galadriel cried. Paniel stopped and turned on her heel.

"That's precisely the problem," Paniel said with a huff, staring at Galadriel with unamused eyes. "I make the most here and I only make 300 coppers a day. Most of the women here make 100. Raise their wages. 500 coppers a day for each of them and then I will be your handmaiden. Or if you can't do it then get your little silver-haired princeling to do it. I would have thought you would be familiar enough with his…lower extremities…by now to get him to do whatever you wish."

"I can do it myself!" Galadriel said with a scowl.

"Good," Paniel said. "Then you had best get busy. Won't do to stand around all day, Galadriel. Some of us have to do real work after all."

That was how Galadriel came to find herself seated in Thingol's office with Venessiel at her side, who she had recruited to her cause reasoning that it would be good to have someone with her who could explain to Thingol how the wages of the servants had not increased although there had been a jump in price inflation after the long peace.

"So you see, Your Highness," Venessiel said, gesturing to the ledgers she had prepared showing Doriath's economic activity in the wake of the long peace, "after we signed so many treaties with the Noldor, first with Maedhros and then with Finrod Felagund, the demand for Doriathrin goods, especially for export to the Noldorin realms increased, but our production capacity has increased at a slower rate than demand for goods, meaning that we do have higher than normal levels of inflation. Based on these numbers I would say that Lady Galadriel's proposal to raise the wages of the servants is entirely reasonable. Indeed, the current wages are very unsuitable and I would not be surprised to learn that this condition has caused some civil unrest among the poorer Sindar and those in the lower middle class."

"Indeed," Galadriel said, "many of them have expressed their discontent to me outright."

"Very well," Thingol said. "Galadriel, draw up the bill and I will sign it. Venessiel, I trust you will take care of adjusting the accounts."

Paniel greeted the news the way she greeted all good news, with scorn. "How very typical of you, Galadriel," she said as Galadriel showed her to her new rooms while Celeborn's footmen carried her solitary trunk of possessions for her. "You didn't change anything until it had to do with you. You really are the most self-serving, conceited, person I have ever met." Galadriel rolled her eyes and sighed, wondering why on earth she had chosen Paniel after all.

"To tell you the truth, Paniel," Galadriel told her, "we had a burglar recently and I was rather hoping that having you around would scare off any future intruders." Paniel snorted with laughter.

"Are you sure you want a handmaiden?" She asked grumpily. "Or was it a dog you were looking for?"

*****

Galadriel awoke with a start, trembling, her cotton shift soaked through with sweat, her legs tangled in the sheets, her heart beating like a hammer within her chest and, for a moment, she saw only blackness though her eyes were open. She felt Celeborn wrapping his arms tightly around her.

"Galadriel, breathe," she heard his voice as though it came to her from far away, but her mind was trapped in a deep and dark place, where the only sound was that of water slowly dripping to land in a shallow, stagnant bilge that covered a rough stone floor.

Glancing to her right she saw Finrod, his body grown gaunt and emaciated, hanging from a pair of rusty iron manacles. His eyes, sunken into the paper-like skin of his face, glanced up for a moment as if he hoped that he might see the light of the sun, but there was only darkness save for the pale flickering of a torch in a far off tunnel.

_His arms were struggling as he tried to hold himself up but he had not the strength and he collapsed with a pained groan against the wall of that dungeon, looking down to where bones lay scattered on the floor. "No! NO!" Galadriel was shouting, screaming, but though her mouth opened she could make no sound come out no matter how hard she screamed. She ran to him, embracing him, but her arms passed through him as though she were no more than a ghost. Frantic, she grappled with the manacles, trying to open them, but it was all to no avail, for her hands were useless, mere shadows that had only form and no substance, no power._

_"Finrod, Finrod," she was sobbing as she clawed at those chains, her fingers passing through them. "Finrod don't leave me. Don't leave me!" She gasped. "Don't leave me alone. I need you."_

_And then she heard slow and heavy footsteps from the tunnel and turned, seeing only a shadow moving there in the darkness. "No!" She whispered. "Not like this. Not here. Not in this hole!" And she struggled once more to no avail to free her brother if only so that he might taste of clean air again, and see sunlight, and know the feeling of grass beneath his feet. "NO!" She shouted._

All of a sudden a memory burst into her mind, a memory of standing in a grass-filled meadow covered in tiny yellow flowers, feeling the crisp breeze in her hair, pulling at her shirt, looking out to rising blue mountains that towered above that plain in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow of pure white. A hawk was winging overhead, a hawk with magnificent plumage and a keen eye, and she turned her eyes up, watching the soaring flight of that magnificent bird.

"Galadriel," she heard Celeborn's voice now, closer. "Galadriel, breathe," he said and, gradually, his familiar green eyes swam into focus as he laid her down on the bed, holding her hands tightly as she shook and shivered, her teeth chattering madly, her eyes wide with shock.

Celeborn was very worried. In recent years she had near complete control over her visions, indeed, she had almost become so like Melian in that respect and yet, even out of all the uncontrolled visions she had had when she had first come to Menegroth, this was by far the worst. He smoothed her hair back from her head with his hand and her skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

The pattering of running footsteps through the corridors of his chambers reached his ears and, momentarily, Galadriel's handmaiden appeared in her nightdress, a candle clutched in her hand, and her eyes went wide as she saw the state that her mistress was in. "What is it?" She breathed. "I…I heard the commotion…"

"Bring water," Celeborn instructed her, "quickly." And the girl ran to do as he bid, filling a silver pitcher with water from one of the fountains before handing it to Celeborn. "A towel, a glass," he said and she handed them to him.

"Galadriel," he whispered, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes watching hers, but she showed no response. "Galadriel, come back."

"What's wrong with her?" The handmaiden asked tentatively.

"There's nothing wrong with her," he said. "She sees things, horrible things, things no one should have to see." The girl reached out, taking the cloth he held and dipped it in the pitcher of water, wringing it out before she moved to sit by Galadriel's head, placing the cool cloth on her brow.

"Will she be alright?" She asked, glancing to where Celeborn knelt, bent over Galadriel's prone form, whispering softly to her. He nodded.

"She will come back," he murmured. The handmaiden glanced at Galadriel's glazed eyes while Celeborn bent over her, concentrating, and suddenly, she seemed to come too, her eyes gradually clearing. "Galadriel, breathe," he whispered and she did, drawing in deep, gasping breaths, reaching for him with trembling hands as he filled a cup with water and encouraged her to drink.

It was then that a knock echoed through the rooms. "They're here," Galadriel said mysteriously, gasping, her eyes growing wide.

"What do you mean? What have you seen?" He whispered but Galadriel said nothing. With a last confused glance at them, the handmaiden clutched her shawl about her more tightly and scurried away to the door.

Celeborn returned his attention to Galadriel but she would not meet his gaze, looking away, and he thought he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "It was Finrod…" she said in a strangled gasp. "Celeborn, I saw Sauron." He stared at her, shocked, but the return of the handmaiden interrupted whatever reply he might have made.

"Your Highness, the king requires your presence in the great hall immediately, and the Lady Galadriel as well."

"Have the King's messenger tell him I am indisposed," Celeborn murmured, still struggling to discern what all of this meant. Paniel ducked out again only to return once more.

"It is…non negotiable, Your Highness," she said. "The King commands it." Celeborn grit his teeth in frustration, wondering what could possibly be so urgent that Thingol would send for them at this hour.

"Very well," he said at last, "inform the messenger that we shall be there shortly." The handmaiden bowed and did as he bid.

"We must go," he said, turning back to Galadriel, his voice laced with anger, not at her but at Thingol. "We will speak of this when we return."

"I know," Galadriel stood, trying to calm the trembling of her hands, and then she steeled herself. "I know," she said again. "I am ready." And Celeborn watched for a moment as an otherworldly strength seemed to encapsulate her body, her eyes glinting with some strange determination, he knew not why. She rose and they dressed quickly, walking in silence all the way to the great hall but he felt her reach out to grasp his fingers and her hand was cold but strong.

"Walk at my side," she said solemnly, yet with a whisper of fear. She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Walk at my side," she said, "and I will not fear."

"I will," he said adamantly, though he did not yet understand what it was that had darkened her heart so. But, the moment they entered the hall he knew and he felt what happiness had been his slipping away like the tide, for it was plain now why the king had summoned him here and he and Galadriel silently took their places at Melian's side. Waves of some nauseous feeling washed over him that he could sense emanating from the queen. He had only to look ahead of him to see why; there, standing before the dais was Lúthien, surrounded by the King's guard and at her side, his hand in hers, was Beren.

Celeborn looked towards Thingol and, as his gaze came to rest upon the king he found that he no longer needed to wonder at the fear in Beren's eyes or the defiance in Lúthien's, for Thingol's eyes were cold and hard, and his words were colder still as anger seemed to breathe forth from his very pores, every line of his body bound up in it.

"You baseborn mortal," Thingol spat, his knuckles white as he gripped his throne, "I ought to put you to death, you who spied and lurked like an orc within my kingdom, without my leave. But do not think it is pity or sympathy for you that stays my hand, indeed, I would gladly give you death myself had I not sworn to my daughter that neither blade nor chain would mar your flesh. Yet even now I would need no chain to keep you confined, only to set you wander for all eternity in these labyrinthine caverns."

"Do not twist the words of the oath you swore to Lúthien," Beren cried, and even now as the man faced Thingol's wrath Celeborn could see that his concern was not for his own safety, but only to shield Lúthien from any worry or fear. "And do not accuse me, who bears the ring of Finrod Felagund, your vassal, given to my father Barahir in tribute for saving his life, of acting as an orc or call me by such names as 'baseborn' and 'spy.' By Felagund's words I had been made to think you fair and just. But is this the justice of Menegroth?" And as Celeborn looked upon Beren he saw that the man meant no malice, just as Lúthien had meant none, but that the both of them were genuinely confused and distraught to find that the happy welcome they had expected now lay in irreparably broken pieces about their feet, that the joy they shared in their own love was not shared by all.

Celeborn had thought that Thingol would not take this well, had planned on there being more time, time in which he might be able to bring the King around to the idea, time in which he and Galadriel might have been able to better prepare the overly-idealistic couple for the scorn and difficulties that they themselves had endured so long ago. And yet the seed had been planted in untilled ground. Lúthien had done the one thing that could cause Thingol to fly into the worst of rages, not falling in love with a mortal man, but the same thing that Galadriel had done so long ago in keeping the secret of Finwë's death and then of the slaying of his people at Alqualondë: she had kept a secret from him, he the king who claimed to know all that passed within his kingdom, a secret that pained him, a secret that felt like a betrayal, a secret that had caused him to feel something, to show some emotion that he had not planned on openly displaying. She had shattered his carefully contrived world of safety; she had inadvertently but irreparably destroyed the mythos that Doriath was secure, that Doriath was untouchable, that Doriath would endure.

It was a myth that Celeborn was only just realizing he had relinquished long ago, and he knew that Galadriel understood, that she understood perfectly, that she had already seen this in her visions though she had not understood it then, and now the pieces were beginning to fall into place at last, every instrument joining now together one after the other and, hearing now the entire symphony, each movement in its proper place, it was not harmonious but grotesque.

"What has happened?" Celeborn asked, turning to Galathil with grave concern, for it was obvious to him that they had happened into the midst of this conversation and he did not know what words might have passed between Beren and Thingol before he and Galadriel had entered.

"Dairon informed the king that our cousin has been sneaking out into the woods at night and Thingol then interrogated her. She swore to bring the man here so long as uncle promised not to hurt him and so she did, going out in the woods and returning momentarily with him. Beren has asked for Lúthien's hand in marriage and uncle…well…you can see for yourself how he is taking it." Galathil's words were quick and clipped, as ever they were when he was extraordinarily anxious.

With a chest tight with anxiety, Celeborn saw Melian bend to whisper something into her husband's ear but he did not seem to take it well and merely shook his head and sneered something in return, something that caused Melian's eyes to flash with fire, that caused her brow to furrow and her face to grow grave as she looked upon her husband with an expression akin to revulsion. "Your pride will be your undoing!" She said, her voice chill. "And the undoing of us all!"

But Thingol gave no heed to his wife's words and, instead, turned back to Beren saying, "very well. I have seen your ring and you say that your father was mighty. Indeed, I have heard as much from Felagund's lips. But you cannot seek to claim your father's deeds as your own. You ask of me my greatest treasure and so I would ask you bring me a great treasure in return," a sour smile snaked its way across his face. And then he said; "return to me here in Menegroth with a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown in your hand and then, only then, may Lúthien give you her hand, if she is willing."

Celeborn felt Galadriel's hand close about his like a vice and, indeed, he felt as though his own heart had stopped for a moment at the King's words. He hardly knew what to think; he did not want to think. A murmur of laughter ran about the hall, for most there assumed that the king must be joking, that he could not be serious, that he was only teasing this man, for it seemed so absurd a thing to ask. But Celeborn knew his uncle well enough to know that his was no joke, rather, Thingol's motive was far darker than humor, and far more deadly.

"A treasure?" Beren said, shaking his head, his eyes showing his distress clearly. "What treasure is a Silmaril compared to Lúthien? You elven kings sell your daughters cheaply. For her even I would pluck the stars from the sky if she but asked it of me. But if this is what you ask of me then, for Lúthien's sake I will fulfill your bidding."

"No, no he cannot go!" Galadriel was whispering frantically at his side.

"It is a task he is meant to fail," Celeborn told her, not that it made it any better. It was still a death sentence.

"And yet he will not fail," Galadriel replied adamantly, words that made Celeborn's heart quake in fear, for he knew better than to disregard Galadriel's foresight and he had looked into Curufin's eyes enough times to know the true price of a Silmaril. It was with cold dread that he pondered the way in which that stone would warp the heart and mind of the only father he had ever known.

Beren turned to Lúthien saying, "Farewell," and clasped her hands in his. "Your love I will have because you love me," he whispered to her, "and not because I will buy it with some jewel."

"Do not go. I beg of you," Lúthien pleaded with him but Beren only gave her a sad smile and traced the lovely line of her cheek with his fingers.

"I will not force you to forsake your family for my sake, nor me for their sake," he said quietly and his smile brightened, his fear gone, his confidence returning. "But I would have you have all the love that the world has to offer, both mine and theirs. And so I shall do this thing for your sake and you need not fear; before you know it I shall be back, Silmaril in hand!" He snapped his fingers and smiled as though it really were that simple. "But now I must go," he said with a wink, squeezing her hands, "for though I have not yet left your presence I find I am already impatient to see you again!" And having so said, he turned, his hands slipping from Lúthien's and, doom sitting heavy upon him though he wore a smile on his face, strode from Thingol's hall.

"Father no!" Lúthien cried, collapsing on the floor before his throne as if she had suddenly grown weak, until her bitter tears overwhelmed her and her pleading was reduced to choked sobs. "If you love me at all you will not do this!" And it wrenched Celeborn's heart to see his ever-joyful cousin reduced to such depths of sadness and desperation.

Then Melian, her eyes glinting with pain and rage, turned to her husband and said, "you have doomed our daughter to a life of pain and wandering." Amid the gasps that had risen up, she turned and descended from the dais to Lúthien who lay weeping upon the floor, bending over her as if to shield her from the pain. Thingol had risen from his throne, his eyes lit with rage.

"Did you think I would let a man, a mere mortal, have what I love best?" He shouted at the queen. "I would sooner kill him myself than let him have her."

But Galadriel had broken free from Celeborn's grasp and she ran to where Melian stood, placing herself between the King and his wife and daughter. "You do not know what it is you have demanded!" She cried, every line of her body tense with anger and fear. "Those jewels are cursed and they will be the end of us all!"

"He will not succeed," Thingol said, with a ferocious glare at the Noldo, "the matter is irrelevant."

"Even the very fact that you tasked him with this quest will anger the Feanorians. They will think that you have laid claim to a Silmaril!" Galadriel exclaimed, her tightly clenched fists quivering in anger, her face and chest flushed red with rage.

"And why shouldn't I?" Thingol thundered, his face going as red as Galadriel's. "Am I not a King in my own right? Have my people also not fought and died in this war against Morgoth? We fought him here when he returned, ere ever your people had managed to cross the sea or the grinding ice! And what is more, what right have you Noldor to tell me what I may claim and what I may not. All of Beleriand was mine ere your people arrived and it is only with my leave and at my benevolence that they have been allowed to settle here, though they scorn me and do me disregard for what kindness and lands I have granted them!"

"You do not want war with them," Galadriel cried. "They will stop at nothing! They will destroy your entire kingdom and all of your people along with her!"

"They cannot stand against the might of Doriath!" Thingol said. "Yet they sit in their halls and call us forest lords and barbarians and Moriquendi! Let us settle things once and for all then, let them bring their war to us and we shall settle the matter upon the battlefield."

"You argue for a kinslaying!" Galadriel cried.

"You are a kinslayer!" Thingol shouted. "And how dare you, you who kept from me the secret of the kinslaying for so long, even as you pretended to be a friend of this kingdom, presume to lecture me on morality?"

Galadriel had the presence of mind to ignore the king's well aimed barbs, crying, "You mean to send him to his death, but what if he succeeds? What will you do then when the Feanorians lay claim to it, when they demand it?"

"Then let them do what they will!" Thingol thundered with scorn. "They cannot touch me here! Let them try."

"If you are as secure in your kingship as you claim then you would not need a Silmaril to prove it!" Galadriel cried, at last going further than she ought. Thingol glared at her with fury etched upon his face, grinding his teeth, his face going startlingly white and, in the matter of a split-second he had descended from the dais, drawing the knife at his back and holding it to Galadriel's throat, tilting her chin up with the point of the shining blade.

"I will not be questioned in my authority in public, by a little girl, a Noldo, a kinslayer," he spat, the droplets of spittle wetting Galadriel's skin.

"I am the granddaughter of Finwë, your best friend, and of Olwë, your brother, as you yourself stated at my betrothal," Galadriel whispered, "or have you forgotten that along with your wisdom?"

Thingol still stared at her with unforgiving eyes, the blade of the knife tight against her throat and then, in a flash of silver steel, another knife knocked it away and Celeborn pushed Galadriel back, standing face-to-face, blade to blade with his king. Thingol looked at his nephew in disbelief, anger etched into every line of his features, but Celeborn too was breathing hard with anger.

"Rebellion on all fronts," the king spat.

"You will never raise your blade to her again," Celeborn said, his voice reverberating with venom, "you will never raise your blade to anyone in this hall, which is a citadel of peace and safety."

"You dare to show the blade of your knife to your king…" Thingol hissed, quivering with fury, and already the guard was approaching, pulling Celeborn back, restraining him and stripping him of his weapons and the prince fought against them briefly before he was fully restrained.

"I dare show the blade of my knife to anyone who would injure this kingdom or those who love her," Celeborn said, his eyes, full of conviction, meeting Thingol's.

"The prince is not in his right mind," Thingol said, drawing himself up to his full height, his face colder than ice, his eyes disdainful. "Shave his head so that he may learn the price of treason." Thingol turned as if to return to his throne while the guards forced Celeborn to his knees but the king turned back once more, pausing, looking at his nephew with eyes full of the sting of betrayal.

"Nay," he said, raising his hand as with the other he drew his knife once more, "I will do it myself." And Celeborn looked up in disbelief before his head was forced down as Thingol pressed the knife to his skin and, slowly, his long silver hair began to fall to the floor.


	30. Flight of the Nightingale

  
**Flight of the Nightingale**

In Cavern's Shade: 30th Chapter

*****

"His mind is in bondage.

He is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt.

He is one of those who don't want millions,

but an answer to their questions."

– Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov 

*****

**Author's Note:** This week's characterization note is on Curufin. Starting to realize that there are themes and stuff in this story that I didn't mean to put in but that are in here somehow anyway…my subconscious?

Figuring out how I was going to tackle the Feanorians was a huge part of this story. The LOTR fandom in general seems to have a very pro-Feanorian bias so I was afraid to write a story that portrays them negatively but I felt that I had to because…well…what they do IS very negative, especially to the Sindar, who are my favorite. Then I realized that there already is a book about the terrible stuff the Feanorians do and…it's called The Silmarillion, so I didn't feel bad writing their dark side anymore.

But, I get why people have affection for them. They do horrible things and yet you still feel kind of bad for them and so that is what I wanted to portray: nuanced villains that you kind of have sympathy for. Because I think that real life villains are also usually very nuanced. I also wanted each of them to have a distinctly different personality. Basically they are dealing with everything that has happened to them but they each cope with it in a different way. Maedhros and Maglor do the best job of coping and well…Curufin…doesn't.

Essentially, Tolkien said he was Feanor's favorite and the most like him. So I imagined that Curufin did all of these horrible things, like the kinslaying, out of love for and devotion to his father but then had this moment where he thought that if his father really loved him he would never have allowed or encouraged him to do something that would doom his soul. Worse, there was a part of him that was satisfied by doing those horrible things because he feels the world is deeply unfair and his way of making things fair is to try to hurt people and make them as damaged as he is. Basically, realizing all of this caused him such a crisis of self where he is completely unable to deal with the reality of his thoughts and feelings.

Celeborn and Curufin have only met a handful of times but I think they both realized upon meeting how very similar they are and thus, though they don't spend much time together, they actually have a deeply intimate relationship. Their personalities are very similar, Celeborn has this part of him that enjoys killing too (as we will see more of in the next book), and Celeborn has with Thingol what Curufin used to have with his father. For Celeborn, every time he meets Curufin he is very aware that he could become like that if he isn't careful so it causes him to be more cautious of Thingol and more introspective about where his own loyalties lie. And, though Thingol actually does care about Celeborn very much, his personality is such that he does tend to kind of push Celeborn down Curufin's path at times and Celeborn has come to realize that, which is one of the reasons he was willing to fight Thingol in the last chapter. Galadriel is the person, and Doriath is the thing, that pulls Celeborn back from that cliff every time, brings him back to who he really wants to be, and reminds him of what is really important…which is why Celeborn's loyalty has begun to swing more heavily in Galadriel's favor than Thingol's. Melian could pull Thingol back if he would let her…and if she wanted to…which we are going to explore more in this chapter.

As for Curufin, he has developed really weird feelings for Celeborn. He sees him almost as a second self in some ways and, for him, Celeborn is representative of that good side he used to have. He almost feels as though if Celeborn would kill him he would feel some sort of redemption from that, as if his good had won out over his evil. On some level I think Celeborn realizes that and he kind of wants to give that to Curufin. Curufin also weirdly sees Celeborn as a sort of father figure replacement for Feanor. Then, on another level he almost has romantic feelings for Celeborn. I suppose it is the whole thing of he wants to make himself whole again.

Poor Celebrimbor is actually very aware of all of this though he doesn't let on that he does. It really is a struggle for him though! But that is a big thing I explore in the next book where Celebrimbor is a main character!

*****

The hall was filled only with the sound of the scraping of the knife's blade against Celeborn's skin and he stared down at the growing pile of long silver tresses on the floor before him, a feeling of deep humiliation beating hot through him like a drum, pulsing so that his skin felt too tight, as if it were constricting him so that any moment his soul would be forced out and he would vomit it up upon the ground for all there to see. All he really wanted to do was to hide it away, and not only that, but to hide all of himself: his thoughts, his feelings, his face.

It seemed such an impossible task, even now he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and he did his best to blink them away. That would only add to the humiliation after all, make him seem a child, and he no longer had any hair to hide tears behind. He had never felt such shame.

After all he had done for this kingdom, after all he had sacrificed for Doriath, for Thingol, he could hardly believe that the king would do this to him. He wanted to look up, to meet Galadriel's eyes and find courage in the strength that he knew he would see there but they were pushing his head down and so he could not raise it. But, Galadriel seemed to understand his thoughts, as she always did and in his mind he suddenly saw the memory of a small, golden-haired child reaching up to take his hand, leading him through the diamond-strewed streets of a great and magnificent city where the noontide light shone bright and golden and a silver lamp glimmered on a hill. He knew that she was willing him to endure this and he knew that with her trust he would not crumble and fall beneath the blade of the knife that hacked his hair away. But the memory she had planted in his mind flickered away and died, overwhelmed by the pain that was coursing through his heart.

There was no greater shame than this, to be stripped of the symbol of his birthright, his heritage, in this fashion, to be branded a traitor to his own kingdom and to the king who had raised him as his own child. He could feel a strange prickling in his eyes but he willed himself not to weep, if only because he would not surrender that last modicum of authority to Thingol. But without his hair he felt as though he were nothing, worse than nothing.

It seemed interminable but at last, somehow, it was finished and they released him. He was heavy on his knees on the floor and pressed the tips of his fingers to the earth, trying to find the strength to stand but it was not there. His head felt cold, his heart felt colder, but the tender hand on his shoulder was warm: Lúthien's, and then it was gone as she, weeping still, was pulled away from him. The pile of silver lay in a heap before him and Thingol strode over to stand atop it, his boots soiling it, addressing all gathered there.

"Let all here bear witness to the way that I shall treat with traitors, be they strangers or of my own kin, princes of this realm or the lowliest of paupers! This is the decree of your king and it shall stand unquestioned!"

It was over at last then, and Celeborn felt someone pulling him up from the floor, the whole world seeming to be a blur about him, and then he felt Galadriel's hand in his, strong and reassuring, and together they left that place. He was still numb when they reached his chambers, hardly seeming to know or remember how they had gotten there. But Galadriel sat, drawing him down into her arms, cradling his head in her lap, and he was grateful to her, grateful that she did not say, 'you should not have done it,' or 'it was foolish of you,' or even, 'thank you.' She knew why he had done it; she understood his heart with clarity and she respected him for it. He tried not to let on that he was crying, turning his head so that his tears fell into her skirt, feeling shame for it, but he was certain that she knew and she rested her warm hands against the bare skin of his head.

There came a frantic rapping at the door and then the yelp of the page as somebody pushed past him, not waiting for permission to enter, and Galadriel looked up to see Galathil storm in, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes hard, and angry, and hurt, and he took up Celeborn's knife that Galadriel had discarded on the divan, casting the sheathe aside as he drew the blade.

"I'm sorry," he said in a choked voice, tears beginning to stream down his face. "I am sorry that I did nothing. I am only a useless musician and I have not his bravery."

"Galathil!" Galadriel gasped, seeking to placate the younger brother as Celeborn stirred in her arms, rising to a sitting position. But Galathil had raised the blade to his own dark hair and began to hack it off in great chunks.

"If we all do it then it has no meaning, no shame," he said. "If we all do it then Celeborn is not alone."

"Galathil!" Galadriel rose, going to him and stilling his hand, taking the blade. "Let me do it," she said quietly and Galathil looked at her for a moment with tear-filled eyes before nodding. Galadriel guided him to sit across from Celeborn and the brothers clasped hands as she raised the knife to Galathil's head and shore off the remainder of his dark brown hair. He breathed deeply when at last she finished, casting his eyes down, but looked up in surprise when he felt her pressing the handle of the knife into his hands.

"Mine next," she said, her gaze steady, her voice full of conviction, and Galathil's eyes went wide.

"I couldn't…" he stammered, "not yours."

"Please," Galadriel said and Galathil nodded.

*****

Galadriel stormed through the halls of Menegroth, the sharp staccato of the heels of her golden slippers echoing about the caverns, a crumpled letter clutched in her trembling hand, fingers clenched so tightly about the paper that her knuckles had turned white. Her face too had gone pale and cold but her eyes glinted with a fearsome light. Not pausing for even a moment, she threw the door open and strode through it, Melian's maidens scattering before her like leaves in the breeze as the Noldo marched towards their queen, who had risen from her loom in surprise, coming to stand before it, facing the granddaughter of Finwë.

"You are a Maia," Galadriel said, her voice low and trembling with anger, "you could put a stop to all of this if you so chose." But in the next instant her breath had caught in her throat as Melian's eyes flashed and she threw out her hand. Galadriel came to an involuntary halt, suspended in place, it seemed, as if some massive hand clutched her in a fist. The queen's gaze was cold, calculating.

But Galadriel's anger burned hotter than the spell that bound her and, gathering her energy, she forced it outwards in an explosion of power and light that echoed around the room like a thunderclap. The handmaidens shrieked, cowering in a corner, while Galadriel and Melian faced each other with intensity, both reverberating as if a current of lightening was burning through them.

"You will never do that to me again," Galadriel growled and Melian's lips narrowed to a thin line.

"You give me orders in my own palace," Melian replied, her voice cold and savage. And now Galadriel could see it fully as she never had been able to before: that Melian and Thingol were two sides of the same card, that while one played the face that everyone saw, the other played the back, disguising the hand that they held until the proper moment.

"Did you think that you could turn me against my husband?" Melian asked, striding forward, her voice deathly quiet, stopping a mere hair's breadth from Galadriel.

"You have disagreed with his treatment of Lúthien before. You rebuked him publicly before the court," Galadriel said, trembling in repressed anger.

"His treatment of her, refusing her freedom, I may disagree with, and I do, but I am in agreement with his reasoning and, in that, he and I are of the same mind. But it is not my duty to explain, not is it your prerogative to question, my relationship with my husband."

"It is when my brother will die for it," Galadriel said coldly, brandishing the crumpled letter at Melian. "He has departed Nargothrond to rendezvous with Beren at the River Narog and aid him in this quest. I have seen his death at the hands of Sauron. Even now you could stop this foolishness that has been set into motion, Thingol could stop it. And yet you gods will do nothing while Middle Earth falls into ruin!"

Melian crossed her arms over her chest, her body thrumming with energy and, for a brief moment there was pity in her eyes. But there was no doubt there. "Your brother will die and for that I am sorry. But my daughter will live. And, if you ask me to weigh Finrod's life against Lúthien's then the scale will always tip in her favor."

"And yet you have doomed her to a lifetime of wandering, as you yourself have said," Galadriel replied.

"Wandering, yes, but not death," Melian said in a voice as cold as ice.

"Of what value is a life without happiness or love?" Galadriel cried.

"She can find another," Melian said.

"But he is her _choice_ ," Galadriel said. "She loves him and yet you wish him dead!"

"I never would have wished him dead," Melian said, her voice a low rumbling, "and for that I am angered with the King. But neither do I wish for Lúthien to marry a mortal, Galadriel."

Hearing her name from Melian's mouth was nearly akin to a slap in the face to Galadriel, for usually the queen would call her her sunbeam, or her daylight child, or the light of Laurelin, but never Galadriel. Her heart quivered at the wound. "Then you are happy that they shall be sundered forever!" She cried.

"I am not happy!" Melian hissed. Her eyes had gone milky white, crackling with a purple energy like vivid lightening as her hair that began to float over her head like some dark cloud. "I am not happy but I would be less happy to see my daughter cold and dead in the ground." Galadriel took a step back, suddenly frightened by the queen.

"It is her choice," Galadriel said, "not yours, not Thingol's. And at what price will you strip her of that choice? Will you see Menegroth brought to wreck and ruin? Will you see those we love destroyed?"

"A vision is only a possibility, not an absolute truth," Melian said, her words harsh.

"As you have told me many times," Galadriel replied, her voice strong but trembling. "But you also taught me to respect the power of a vision, to consider the possibility that it will come to pass as well as to consider that I may not be able to change the outcome. Have you considered that things may be further out of your control than you think? Have you considered that perhaps you have not seen all that is yet to come, that some thing may lie beyond your sight?"

The Maia reached out and grasped Galadriel's chin between fingers that felt as though they were made of steel, her eyes boring into the elf's. "When your own children have been brought to ruin, when they are nothing but a memory, when Celeborn's son dies within you and your womb turns to dust then you may seek me out in Aman, if you so dare, and then you will have a right to question me," Melian said. She took her hand away and Galadriel, feeling as if all vitality had been sucked from her, collapsed to the floor as the queen strode by and, in a gale force wind, quit the room.

It was in a blur of half-contemplated pounding emotion and trembling steps that Galadriel, grasping at the wall the entire way, feeling as if she had just run a very long and exhausting race, managed to return to her and Celeborn's chambers. It was as if she had been holding herself back from the brink of exhaustion until she was assured that she could collapse into the security of his arms and knew she must make it just a few steps further, down the hall and past the servants' quarters and into the main room where she leaned against the wall heavily, having not the energy to take even one more step.

"Galadriel!" Celeborn had bolted up from where he had been sitting, hurriedly tossing down the book he had been reading and, as she felt his arms close around her, Galadriel collapsed into him. He lifted her, carrying her up the stairs to the bed and laying her down there before he moved to sit at her side, smoothing his hand across her bare head. Galadriel reached up with a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips over the silvery stubble that was what remained of his once-magnificent hair. Celeborn caught her hand in his.

"What has happened?" He asked and Galadriel opened her fist to reveal a crumpled letter, a letter bearing Finrod's cracked and broken seal and written in his hand; a single piece of paper that told him what he had already expected, that Finrod would go with Beren, that he felt bound by the vow he had made to Barahir. Celeborn set the letter down and sighed deeply.

"Melian…I…confronted her" Galadriel said, but no sooner were the words out of her mouth than the enchanted ceiling of Menegroth flickered to darkness and back like a candle deprived of oxygen. Celeborn gasped, looking up with fright. There seemed to be a strange breeze winding its way through the palace, shaking the leaves of the trees above, and the feeling of something fell, something that caused Celeborn's skin to prickle. It seemed as though the whole palace had taken on some sinister air.

"I received that letter some hours ago," Galadriel continued. "No one will do anything," she said, her voice going hard, her eyes glinting with sudden anger. "Everyone is so complacent about the loss of life. Even the gods do nothing! And now my brother goes out to die." She was quivering with fury now. "I am not ready to stop fighting, Celeborn, I'm not!" She cried, feeling a sudden flux of energy, trying to sit up but Celeborn bent over her, gripping her arms tightly, and forced her back down.

"They're not our friends, Galadriel," he told her, his eyes dark. "Melian and Thingol. They can be friendly and we can love them and they can love us, even as parents, but do not forget who they are. They are our rulers. They're not our friends. Thingol taught me that with the blade of his knife. Even Fëanor was not a father to his sons in the end."

"I know," Galadriel said, the feeling of hopelessness coming over her once again. "I know…I've always known only I didn't want to..." She grew silent, staring into the fire. "I know they have massive responsibilities…responsibilities for this kingdom that we could not even begin to imagine but… Celeborn…if we ever become the King and Queen of someplace will we…will we become like that? Is that the price we will pay? I could not bear for my heart to become so hardened."

Celeborn sighed, looking at her for a moment and then shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know." And he didn't, but he wished he did. He wished there was some way out of this, yet he felt like a rabbit in a trap, struggling futilely against the snare that held it, waiting for the hunter to come and bring the end with him.

"I want answers," Galadriel whispered.

"I wish I could give them to you," he told her, "but I can only give you myself and hope that it is enough." Galadriel squeezed his hand.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I know that this has been just as difficult for you. Indeed, long have your people suffered the apathy of the Valar."

"There is no need for you to apologize," he told her. "But sleep now and we shall speak again when you awake, when you are not so tired."

"You are the one person who brings me comfort these days," Galadriel replied, her eyes already beginning to flutter closed under the weight of sleep. Her body seemed to be crying out for release from this waking and Celeborn curled up at her side, pulling her into his arms as sleep overcame her and she fell…down…down…down into the abyss of dreams.

_She was turning, turning in the widening gyre, falling through a shower of rain into blackness before she materialized like ink staining parchment in Doriath's great hall and there before her on a bier of black velvet encircled by candles gone cold and dark, their wicks burnt down to black stumps lay Lúthien: cold, and white, and still, and dead. The purple dusk of mortality stained her once pink lips like shadow, her hair, black as midnight, was strewn with snowy niphredil blossoms._

_Then the great hall became a thin line of darkness that slowly bled out to reveal that dungeon deep and dark that she had seen before, where Finrod hung from wrists that had become mere skin and bones in tightly clasped manacles of cold and unforgiving steel. She heard the footsteps in the hall once more, splashing through the stagnant bilge that coated the floor, and Finrod raised haunted eyes, one word slipping past his dry and cracked lips: "Sauron." Her heart hammering, Galadriel turned to find him towering over them, a form clothed in darkness wearing a heavy crown of blackest steel, his eyes blazing like burning coals in a face so devoid of color it might as well have been glass._

_His body moved with a strange creaking noise that sent a chill coursing through her bones and then she was screaming in terror as she was caught up in a river of her brother's blood, a river that poured over the edge of the world into night and then she was sliding in that blood down the walls of Doriath, walls that seemed interminably long, before she crashed to the floor with a sickening crunch. There was Celeborn through a screen of darkness and, sobbing, she crawled towards him, her fragile fingers breaking on the hard earthen floor. She pulled his lifeless form into her lap, cradling his head, kissing him as if that could bring him back to her. Then his face changed and, suddenly, she found herself staring at Thingol, her horrified face reflected in his cold, dead eyes._

_The world went pure white then, light exploding outward like stardust, and she saw a brilliant glow so bright that she could not stand to look at it and turned away, shielding her eyes. She gasped as she felt someone slip something cold about her throat, a necklace that glowed with a strange pulsing light and it grew tighter, so tight that it was choking her, cutting off her air and she pulled at it, trying to loosen it, to tear it off, but she could not get her fingers beneath it and she could feel it cutting into her skin now, closing her airway, her lungs pleading for air. She was choking, her body beginning to spasm as her eyes rolled back in her head and the world began to go dark, her ears echoing with the whispers of her cousins' voices._

_And then she heard a different voice, an otherworldly voice as deep as the ocean, as the depths of the earth. "Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever…"_

_She turned her eyes up to the mountains where the dark shadowy figure of Námo stood and yet it was Namo no longer, but Melian. Strange and fey she looked, clothed in black and tattered clothes, her hair of shadows and midnight caught in the breeze like a hurricane and she stared down from those heights with a tearstained face before, from her back, sprouted black wings of leathery skin and scraggly feathers that molted from her back, falling like black snow. A horrible screeching noise was ringing in her ears._

"Galadriel! Galadriel come back to me!" She heard a voice calling to her and then there was some force in her mind, something foreign and yet familiar, pushing back the darkness that threatened to overwhelm her. Images of autumn began to crowd into her head and suddenly she felt as though she were sitting in a hollow filled with crisp golden leaves, the pleasant musky scent of the earth surrounding her as the sun shone down warmly on her skin.

She turned her head up to see the canopy of trees overhead: a brilliant symphony of reds, and oranges, and golds. And, at her side was Celeborn, dressed in hunting clothes, his hair long and silver once more, a great bow strung across his back but he was staring not at her, but out at the sunset, watching with a smile as it painted the crimson and gold foliage in evening shades of soft lavender and glowing fuchsia so that the entire horizon looked as though it had been lit aflame. There were several small blue birds playing in the leaves nearby and, with a smile, Celeborn extended his arm and one of the little birds eagerly hopped onto his finger, preening her feathers there. He began to sing softly while the bird rested upon his finger.

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the earth._

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the earth._

_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,_

_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly._

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the sky._

And then he laughed softly, joyfully as the bird perked up at the end of his song, ruffling her feathers once more before she was gone in a burst of energy, winging high into the sky. Galadriel smiled too and then she was looking up into his green eyes as his face swam in and out of view. "Celeborn?" She whispered, confused.

"Galadriel," He breathed a sigh of relief and she could feel that his hands, which were clasping her face, were trembling. She gradually became aware that her chest was heaving, her lungs tight, as though she had just run a race or been underwater unable to breathe for a very long time. She tried to move but found that her bones ached so terribly she was unable to do so. "Just lie still," Celeborn said. She could hear the worry in his voice.

"What happened?" She asked, surprised to find that her throat was sore and that her voice was raspy. She reached up, grasping at her neck, but her hands were slick with sweat and slipped away. "What happened?" She choked the words out again. Celeborn seemed uncharacteristically frantic.

"What did you see?" He asked her, eyes concerned. "I sent your handmaiden for Inwen."

"I saw Finrod again…" she said, breathing hard, sweat pouring down her body, "and Sauron."

"Your screaming woke me," he told her. "You were screaming as you have never done before…your handmaiden came running out, startled, you were convulsing, grasping at your neck, choking yourself, and when I tried to pull your hands away I could hardly do it. It was as if there was something otherworldly in you. Your strength was greater than usual. I couldn't pull you out of it," his words came tumbling out in a quiet rush. His gaze was unusually intense, afraid.

"Galadriel!" Inwen had arrived and she wasted no time in tending to Galadriel, who seemed to Celeborn to be very reticent to speak though she did allow Inwen to examine the damage she had caused to her throat. But, after the healer had left she was strange, sitting in bed with her knees pulled up to her chest, resting her chin on them.

"Did I do the wrong thing in sending for her?" He asked, sitting opposite her atop the coverlet, crossing his legs. Galadriel merely sighed and closed her eyes, saying nothing. They sat in silence for a while and then he spoke again. "What did you see?" He asked again.

Her eyes flicked open and he was surprised by how completely devoid of emotion they were. "Finrod will die at Sauron's hands in a dungeon, you will be cut down in Menegroth's halls, I will die with my cousins' hands about my throat, Lúthien we will lay to rest amongst the niphredil this spring, Thingol will die choking in his own blood, and Melian will depart this world forever."

Silence stretched between them once again after that, a silence that seemed interminable, and Celeborn stood, finding himself possessed by a strange manic energy as he paced about, hands on his hips, trying to puzzle it all out. Galadriel watched him with a strange nonchalance.

"You're like me now," she said in a rasping whisper, "just some animal trapped in a cage, no way out, waiting for that axe to fall…and you know it will, but you do not know the hour. It is enough to drive anyone mad." And Celeborn remembered Curufin's gaze.

"We can change it!" He said, turning towards her, his heart filled with resolution. "Doriath has stood for ages of the world and for all those ages Melian and Thingol have stood against all the forces of Morgoth himself. We will not fall!" It was almost as though by saying it with such force he thought he could make himself believe it.

"I have seen it," she said hollowly.

"Not everything is certain!" Celeborn told her, still pacing. "The visions are only possible paths, not certainties. We can make a stand! We can fight!"

"Maybe that is why I first loved you," she said, her voice growing sad, her eyes wistful, "because you believe you can change things…" she cast her eyes down, shaking her golden head, "I would have thought that after all you have endured in Middle Earth you would be broken by now." She looked back up at him with eyes filled with profound sadness. "Doom is upon us, Celeborn, and we cannot change it."

"We can," he said, heart burning. "We can do something. We must do something. I will not sit here and let our future slip away."

"This world is dying," she told him. "We are dying." And with that she lay down, her back to him while he said nothing, pondering all that she had said. At last she fell into a weak and worried sleep and Celeborn sat, watching her toss and turn in the dying firelight. But he found no solace in sleep, staying awake until well after the candles had burned themselves down to mere stumps. And he worried over the change that he had seen in Galadriel of late, and not only her, but Thingol as well, even Melian. He wondered what this world was coming to when they would all simply accept what was happening, when they were content to accept fate, no longer willing to fight it. And he cursed the Valar on their thrones.

He watched her in her shallow and troubled sleep, remembering the night he had first seen her, slender as a willow but unbreakable, a thin flame among the frosted rushes bathed in moonlight and yet stronger than steel, glowing with ethereal light. Her laugh had been the happiest sound he had ever heard, her eyes so magnificent that even on that first night he had been unable to look away, though he had known it was impolite, her touch had lit his heart aflame, had inspired him, her courage…her courage had made him anew.

And now…now he knew what he must do. He would make her eyes shine once more, would make her smile again, would bring joy to her heart. He would show her that her visions were not written in stone, that it was possible to prevail, that at least one person in this kingdom was not content to accept fate, that he still cared even if the Valar did not, that he would fight against the dawning of darkness that Melkor brought to his people and this earth be it with the very last breath he held in his body.

He closed his eyes, blinking the tears away, placing his hand upon her brow and he began to sing in a soft and low voice, a song of love, sending her of to a world of blissful dreams, of old things that rested peacefully in the night.

_Beloved you are my heaven,_

_you are my only devotion._

_You are my wish,_

_you are the peace of my soul._

_You are the soothing of my eyes,_

_you are the beat in my heart._

_Never shall I forget your fragrance,_

_the balm of your words._

_I was undeserving but you laid the world at my feet,_

_O brightness of my heart you are the wealth of centuries._

_And I know nothing else, only this:_

_I see the light in your eyes, my beloved,_

_My soul bows down in worship of you,_

_I see the light in your eyes,_

_What else could I do but love you?_

His voice trailed off into silence and, gradually, she grew still, her breathing deepening, as she fell into an enchanted sleep. Then slowly he took his hand from her brow and, where it had been, he pressed a kiss, drawing back to allow his eyes to linger upon her one final time, the woman who would have been his wife. The parting was made all the more bitter because he knew that even if he were reborn in Aman he would never again see her, for she was banished from there for all eternity by Námo himself. This then, was the final parting. He would never know her as his wife, but he resolved in his heart that he would never love another and that he would thus remain unwed until Illúvatar began the final music and then, perhaps, they would meet again, not as elves, but as stars in the heavens.

"Galadriel,"he whispered, moving to tuck her hair behind her ear. And then he took the silver ring from his finger, slipping it between her hands and, in sleep, she wrapped her fingers tight around it. "I release you," he whispered and then, because he doubted his resolve if he did not leave and quickly, he stood, pulling on his hunting clothes and his heaviest armor, clasping the cloak she had made for him, a cloak woven of her love, about his shoulders.

He paused a moment before setting pen to paper. There were so many things to say and yet all of them so impossible to express. And so he wrote:

 

_My beloved,_

_I will find Finrod and offer myself to Sauron in his place so that he and Beren may go free and that both you and Doriath may be spared. Be happy, I beg of you. The only thing I ask is that you plant a tree where you make your home, name it after me and always remember me fondly when you look upon it. Recall not the sorrow that passed between us, but only the joy, for happiness was the greater and love was stronger than despair. And whatever the years may bring, do not forget that there was love once between a princess of Valinor and a prince of Doriath; that even the greatest of sunderings may be mended. There is hope, Galadriel."_

That was all he wrote, leaving it there on the table for her. And then he took up his glimmering crown from where it sat, watching for a moment as the black metal glittering with the dust of a meteorite shone in the dying flames of the fire and he saw reflected there a face that might have been Thingol's for the resemblance, eyes that could have been Curufin's for all the darkness in them. "I am different," he whispered to the darkness and silence.

His hands were trembling as he laid the crown on the ground before the king's door. Thingol would know what it meant. He wished he could have bid Galathil farewell, but had he seen his brother's face he would have faltered in his resolve. And, trying not to think about what he was doing, lest his heart grow weak with yearning for food, and drink, and merriment, home and heart and the warmth of Galadriel's arms, he wrapped the cloak all the more tightly around himself, resolved not to look back as he strode forth from Menegroth's halls.

The stable boy had been asleep. "Your Royal Highness," he had protested weakly, "the king said no one is to come or leave."

"I am the crown prince of this kingdom and I have ordered you to ready my horse," Celeborn commanded harshly and the boy had complied.

The plains were cold and frozen in late autumn, the grasses standing tall encased within prisms of ice that glimmered in the moonlight and the trees were naked and barren in this the denouement of autumn. The breath of his horse was a chill mist in the cold night air and the sky up above was a perfect black in which a myriad of stars like diamonds shone with a fierce and wild brightness as if they had been flung across the sky by some godlike hand. The land had a primeval feel to it this night, as though he could stand still here for all time frozen and nothing would change, as if old and unseen things still walked this earth. But change it must he knew for that was they way of the world and yet it would not be his world, but a world that he would bequeath to those who would live.

 _When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home._ The words that Thingol had spoken to him so long ago, before the battle of Beleriand, echoed in his mind. His king had been a different man then, unbroken. He opened his mouth, but the words of his battle cry died like dust upon his lips.

The moon shone down in silver beams, silver the color his hair had been, painting the forest floor in savage light and Celeborn wheeled his horse about, making for the rendezvous point that Finrod had mentioned in his letter, thundering across the earth with a reckless abandon, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late, that they were still there.

He saw it at last, the crackling fire, and slowed his horse, gazing into the darkness. He could hardly believe that it might be them, these 12 figures sitting around a lonesome fire and he nearly gasped in surprise for they looked so small and he had expected a great army from Nargothrond…not this small band of companions. He dismounted then, slowly making his way forward and they heard him, leaping up from their seats, drawing weapons, thinking, perhaps that he was a bear, but then Finrod saw him and his face was confused for a moment before it relaxed.

"Celeborn?" He said, sheathing his knife and walking slowly forward, still puzzled. "Is that you?"

"It is I," the Sinda replied and he saw the others sheath their weapons, saw Beren, a concerned look upon his face, begin to step forward, but Finrod motioned to him to return to the fire and he did so as the Noldo stepped out of the woods into the clearing, wrapping his cloak tight about him in the chill of autumn, coming to stand across from his friend. Finrod's face was wistful almost, his eyes wells of memory, but there was also a strange contentment in his gaze, as though he had made his peace with the world.

"Your…hair…" he murmured to Celeborn. "I almost didn't recognize you."

"It was Thingol who did it," Celeborn replied, reaching up to run a self-conscious hand over his head.

"Thingol?" Finrod reached out to place a hand on his friend's shoulder, his eyes filled with concern, and Celeborn pursed his lips, shaking his head.

"After Beren left Galadriel confronted Thingol and he drew his blade on her," Celeborn said, watching as Finrod's eyes grew wide. "And I drew my blade on him to defend her but also to show him the error of his ways, or so I thought, but he saw it only as treason and treated it as such."

"Beren told me some of the madness that has come over him," Finrod said. "But I never imagined that he would harm those he loves in such a way."

"His thoughts are born of fear," Celeborn said, "and thus he reacts with desperation rather than reason, which is why I have come."

"And why is that?" Finrod inquired.

"Let me go in your place," Celeborn said. "Galadriel has had a vision of your death at Sauron's hands and it torments her. Go back to her and I will stand in your stead."

Finrod shook his head as if this were a preposterous idea. "You swore to me," he said, his eyes burning into his friend's. "You swore that you would care for my sister when I was gone."

"She needs _you_ ," Celeborn replied with equal conviction.

"She needs you more," Finrod said, his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I will not pretend that this is honorable, or beautiful, or somehow just – the trading of one life for another. It is a filthy business Celeborn, a business that we are all caught up in. Would I spare Galadriel my death if it were possible? Aye, I would, but it is not and I cannot. For I have sworn an oath, just as surely as you swore an oath to me, and I must be free to fulfill it."

"Break it!" Celeborn urged him. "Break it and return with me to Menegroth, all of you. We will find some way to make this all right. Of what value is honored compared to a life? We will think of something!"

"You know that is impossible," Finrod said, his eyes watching Celeborn's, seeing the truth there. "Doriath will need you, Celeborn. She is as a ship in a storm with no captain at the helm. You must guide her now that Thingol has been lost. But, leave me this choice. For it was my choice to fulfill this oath, not only because of my allegiance to Barahir, but because Galadriel is not the only child of Finarfin to be cursed with foresight."

"A vision is only a possibility, not a truth!" Celeborn cried.

"If I do not go then Beren shall perish and ruin come upon us all," Finrod told him. "Mayhap it will still come but I can buy you time with my life…I can buy Galadriel time and a chance, a chance to live. If I die then perhaps she need not. Perhaps she can escape the doom of Mandos."

"Let me go in your place!" Celeborn begged. "She will be utterly alone! What family will she have left if you perish?"

"You," Finrod said. "She will have you, Celeborn. My death will pain her…your death would kill her. After she refused to come to Nargothrond with me when I first founded it I grew troubled and angry with her, jealous of you that you had stolen my constant friend and companion from me. And, for that, I became cruel to her, saying and doing many things that I now regret so that I might selfishly hoard her affection. But the night that she fled Nargothrond I understood at last what it was that you had offered her: a future." Felagund's voice cracked and he dropped his head, his eyes clouding with bitter tears.

"After the betrayal at Alqualondë, after abandonment by our father, after the pain and heartache of the Helcaraxë, the starving time in the wilds of Beleriand, the wretched secret that I forced her to keep against her will…that is what she needed, Celeborn: a future, hope; and I could not give it to her, still I cannot. If I stay here I will grow to loathe this place, to resent it and all who dwell in it, and that hatred will twist me and turn me into someone who I do not want to be, someone who will injure and destroy those who love me."

"It is your choice," Celeborn said.

"It is," Finrod said, "and I have made it. I know that a grave lies at the end of this road. I could change things. I could choose to walk a different road, but this is the path that I have chosen. It is not that I am unafraid. Indeed, the fear I feel is greater than any I have ever known, but more than I fear death, I fear the person I will become if I do not make this choice." Then Celeborn knew Finrod's heart and bowed his head in acceptance.

Finrod reached out, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You have been the best of friends to me…always," he said. "Even now you offer your life for the sake of Galadriel's happiness, for the sake of your kingdom, for my sake. I am honored that you shall marry my sister; there is none more worthy of her. And she will need you, Celeborn, and you her in the ages to come, more than either of you know," he paused, managing a small grin. "Tell me, if ever the Valar grant me mercy I am reborn in Aman, shall I put in a good word for you to my parents?" Celeborn nodded numbly, feeling his throat grow tight.

"This is the last time I will see you…isn't it?" He asked, already knowing the answer and Finrod nodded, certainty in his eyes.

"In this world, yes," he said and Celeborn reached up, unclasping the cloak he wore and fastening it about Finrod's shoulders instead.

"Galadriel made this," he told his friend, "may it protect you as it has protected me." Finrod grasped his hand and, in the next moment they had drawn each other into a tight embrace, weeping until neither of them had tears left to shed and then, wordlessly, because there were absolutely no words that could do justice to this moment, they stepped apart, grasping hands one last time.

And, as Celeborn strode away, leading his horse behind him, he turned back one last time to see Felagund standing there in the forest like a spark of gold, his hand raised in farewell and Celeborn raised his hand to his friend one last time. Then, steadying his heart, he turned back towards Menegroth, the sound of the crackling fire in the distance faded and then all he heard was the sound of his boots crunching across the frosted forest floor.

He suddenly felt very alone though he had never felt alone in the midst of trees before and he walked through the forest with a kind of numbness, as if he had been dulled to all sensation or as if by this impassivity he sought to defer the emotions that had been building for so very long, that threatened to overwhelm him. He feared those thoughts and feelings, for he knew not how they might manifest and he had seen the effect of such things before. Only earlier this night he had seen his own eyes reflected in the cold metal of his crown and seen in them churning the same fear that had taken the heart of Curufin…of Thingol. And he knew that he was capable of the same anger, the same aggression, the same brutal disregard for the living.

 _I am different_ , he had said to himself. He said it again now aloud. "I am different." The trouble was in believing it. He had passed through the trees and now came to stand in a clearing where the moon shone down on the frosted grass, making it glitter like diamonds and, as he raised his eyes to the heavens he saw the stars so fiercely bright scattered across the sky. His horse stopped, sniffing at the grass, his breath rising up in a warm vapor, and Celeborn gave the animal a small smile. Then he bent, touching his hands to the ground, kneeling, closing his eyes as the musky scent of autumn leaves in the hollow of the world greeted him and he could feel the thrumming deep-beating of the heart of the earth coursing through his hands, through his skin, pulsing through his blood.

It felt like greeting an old friend and he took a deep breath, drawing the life into himself, feeling the warm growing of the soil in his hands, the whispers of the trees on the wind, all life in communion there in the womb of the earth. He welcomed it in, feeling the strength of rivers coursing through him like white water thundering over a cliff to pools whose azure depths extended to the core of the earth itself. And he breathed deep the scent of the earth, carried to him on the breeze that surrounded him, enveloped him, of the soil that tugged at his heart and the grasses that wrapped themselves around his fingertips as a mother might wrap her hand around the tiny one of her child. He sank down, heavy on his knees in the earth and felt her energy growing within him, the conduit for her power, even as the emotions grew in his heart like a raging river, fear, and anger, and betrayal, and loss, and helplessness, and desire, and striving, and love piling one over the other like waves upon the seashore.

Then in a colossal surge of power it all burst forth from him like a dam breaking, surging outwards like lightening into the earth, the grasses, the trees, and he felt the ground shake beneath him with the violence of an earthquake, the energy surging outwards as the grasses burst free from their icy prisons, blossoming with new and verdant life, as the bare and black branches of the trees suddenly erupted with fresh green leaves that grew in a matter of seconds to maturity, and flowers began to spread like wildfire across the clearing, opening their pearly white petals to the glory of the moon. The heavens exploded with the sound of nightingales singing and, his entire body shaking, Celeborn looked up at the life that had flowed forth from him. That. He had not known he was capable of that. He rose to his feet in slow reverence at the glory of the earth and then he knew…he knew exactly where he stood.

This was the beginning of the end, as Melian had told him so long ago when Galadriel had first arrived in Menegroth, but even in that doom there was hope and, what was more, there was life. Perhaps it would very well end in defeat but he would not step down from this fight, nor would he step away from this earth that he loved or the kingdom who loved him. _When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home._

Thingol's words of old beat in his heart like a savage drum and, courage swelling in his soul as an eddy in the Sirion, he looked out across that plain to the north where, far away and unseen, the dark lord sat upon his dark throne. "I am still here!" He shouted, his heart growing hot within him. "And I am unafraid! So come and claim me if you dare to try but I swear with every fiber in my being that I will outlast you!" He raised his hand, pointing northward. "When you are chained in the hell of your making still I shall be and when all your foul machinations come to ruin my children and my children's children shall inherit this earth and rule it as kings!" Returning to Menegroth, he sang his war song with pride and courage.

_The four winds are blowing,_

_The dark lord's war party came a riding,_

_They came riding on wolves._

_Their teeth they were sharp,_

_Sharp as knives in the dark._

_Our arrows they were sharper,_

_Our blades they were sharper,_

_We have obliterated every trace of them!_

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the earth._

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the earth._

_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,_

_Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly._

_We circle round, we circle round,_

_The boundaries of the sky._

_I am in my power._

_I stand in my power._

_I sing in my power._

_I am. I am._

He had been gone less than a night and yet it felt as though he had traveled to the other end of the world and back. The palace was only just waking but he had asked the first guard he had encountered as to the King's whereabouts and been directed to the great hall where he found Thingol seated on his throne not like a king, regal and proud and calm as still waters, but like a vagrant: meager and scheming and afraid. _He fears death._ The thought had risen unbidden to his mind but rang with veracity.

Celeborn strode forward, passing between the trees and crossing the creeks with feet that were sure of the weight that they carried, his footsteps falling heavy in the silence of that deserted hall. And, as he approached, Thingol raised sunken and tired eyes to him and Celeborn saw there the light of the trees gone faint, as if it was dying. Upon his knee, clasped in a worried and trembling hand, was Celeborn's crown.

"I thought you had gone out to die," Thingol said, his voice a ragged whisper as he clutched his robe about himself. He looked old, like a stag that has passed his prime and will never know another summer.

"I did," Celeborn said, coming to a halt. "I went out seeking death and I found it, looked into its eyes and chose life instead. Do not shun the fear and the pain, o King, but welcome them into your heart and turn them, instead, into something greater. It is fear that binds you to this throne as if it were a prison, not the might and valor that you had of old."

Thingol drew himself up, his fingers going tight around the crown, his knuckles growing white, his eyes growing cold and hard, his nostrils flaring in anger. "I am a king," he said, "and I know no fear."

"I had thought that my loss might be enough to alter your mind," Celeborn told him and Thingol's eyes glinted with a strange sadness that was yet marred with pride.

"I thought I had lost you as well," he said.

"You have," Celeborn said, his voice quiet and even. "You lost me the moment you condemned Beren to death and Felagund along with him, you lost me the instant you sentenced my cousin to a life of pain and wandering, you lost me when you doomed the woman I love to mourn the only family that remains to her. Embrace your fear, Thingol, and face it. Recall Beren and Felagund. Let us fight Morgoth openly. If all of us band together perhaps there is some chance, who can say, but the only thing that is assured is that if we do nothing then the victory shall go to Morgoth. Already the fear that he propagates has crippled you, but cast it off as you would cast off a chain and let us meet him in battle uncowed and unbroken. Let us show him the greatness of Doriath and the courage of our people and of their king as we did of old. "

But Thingol's eyes grew hard at the thought, his heart twisted in anger, and he cast the crown down at Celeborn's feet, where it fell with a clatter. "Band together with slayers of kin, with murderers, with second born," Thingol trembled as the words fell from his lips. "You would set yourself at odds with the decrees of your king," he spat and pointed a trembling finger at the crown that lay on the floor. "Then take your collar and wear it like the dog that you are." And Celeborn bent slowly to pick it up.

"I do not take it for love of you," he said, "for what king I once loved as a father is no more, but because I will not abandon my people when you have already forsaken them." And having said, he turned and left, his heart beating not with anger, or pride, or pain, but only with the desire to know warmth, and affection, and love again, to know that these things were real, that they were not illusions.

The sound of the door opening and closing with a slam startled Galadriel and she looked up to see her betrothed striding down the hall. "Celeborn!" she gasped, her voice filled with equal parts shock and relief, and she dropped from trembling hands the armor that she had been about to don, the spear that had stood at the ready.

But, in the next instant a rage came upon her and her eyes flashed with fearsome anger. "How dare you," she growled as Celeborn strode towards her, not stopping for a moment, driven by some otherworldly ardor, his green eyes filled with some strange and ethereal light and she knew there was no fear in him any longer and no fear in her. "How dare you!" She shouted at him, pummeling her fists against his chest, slapping him. "How dare you go out to die without me! How dare you leave me alone in this world without you!" She grabbed her spear and launched it across the room, screaming, tears of fury streaming down her face, her body shaking in rage and the aching vestiges of sorrow.

"There is still life in this world," he said, his voice a strangled gasp, "there is still life in us," his hands went to either side of her face, cupping it, his fingers digging into her skin so tightly it nearly hurt but something about the pain sated her soul, reminded her that she was not numb, as his thumb dragged across her lower lip, pulling it down against her teeth as he turned her eyes up towards him. Galadriel felt her heart hammering in her chest as she met his gaze. So many centuries had passed and yet those eyes were still the same eyes of the young man she had met so long ago in Doriath, eyes that made her feel the power coursing through her own blood, eyes that demanded she act, eyes that caused her to see a frontier laid out before her, unexplored, unknown, eyes that were as savage and desolate as this land itself. And she saw the power moving in him, ancient, primal, visceral.

Their gazes met for one more moment, eyes flickering towards each other before they closed them and she felt his lips press hot and forceful against her own, opening her mouth and she opened it to him, drinking in the taste of him, the feel of the edge of his tongue against hers. He pressed her against the wall, the living stone at her back and him, living, and solid, and real, pressed tight against her. He released her from that bruising kiss at last, just when she thought that she must breathe or perish, and she gasped, pushing her head back against the wall as his teeth found gentle purchase in the curve of her neck.

"Make me feel something, anything. Make me believe that we are alive." She murmured and she clutched him to her, with her hands expressing the fear she had felt only a moment earlier: that he was lost, and gone, and dead. She cried out as he bit her and then pushed her back into the wall even more forcefully and she knew he needed it as badly as she did: to know that he lived, that this was no vision or dream or nightmare, but something so very real, so very tangible. She caught his head in her hands and pressed her lips to his again, biting at his bottom lip, pulling at it with her teeth.

Galadriel's breath was coming in deep gasps now as she frantically fumbled with the buckles of his armor and the laces of his jerkin, sighing as she heard his weapons clatter to the ground. She pushed the jerkin off, her hands practically tearing the clasps from his tunic as that soon followed the jerkin. His shirt she did tear, the small buttons popping off and she could feel his hands, demanding, at the collar of her own shirt, tearing it from her body. At last they were both bare and she felt him push her up against the wall once more, wrapping her legs about him in response, gasping at the longed for feeling of his flesh warm against her own skin. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, pumping blood through his body, blood that ran hot within his veins, and she needed that warmth, that assurance that there was life before the grave.

Their eyes met again and she again pressed her lips against his in a crushing kiss as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh. She felt him pick her up and then move to lay her down upon the bed. He climbed atop her and she pulled him down against her, wrapping her legs around his hips as he cupped her face in his hands. "Say it," he commanded her, "say that you live."

"I live," she growled, "touch me and know it to be true," she demanded of him and he did as she arched up into his embrace like a bow loosing an arrow. And then with eyes burning with fire she met his once more ordering that he do the same; "swear it to me," she gasped.

"I am alive," he swore, pressing the syllables of the words into her skin with his lips, searing them there like scars upon her flesh. "I am alive." And when he looked into her eyes he believed it: that his soul was not cold and dead within him.

"Marry me now," she whispered and he met her eyes. "I need to feel your life within me." He could taste the salt of her tears on her cheeks, the salt of his own mingling with them, and he wanted it too: to feel her life surrounding him. But he knew what wrath would come upon them if they wed now.

"Not in sadness," he said, and then in a massive expulsion of energy, as if with those words he had used the last of his strength, his body gave way and he collapsed on top of her as she pulled him as tightly against him as she was able, and together they wept for Alqualonde, for Aegnor and Angrod, for Beren and Lúthien, for Finrod, for Thingol and Melian, for Doriath.

*****

"Your Royal Highness," the herald stepped into Celeborn's office, "my apologies for the interruption but the Lady Ambassador to the Noldor requests an audience."

"Thank you," Celeborn replied, "please inform her that I shall see her shortly once I have finished with the matter at hand."

"Highness," the herald said with a quick bow of confirmation before he exited the room. Celeborn knew by the way she had asked to be introduced that it was a matter of state rather than a personal matter that she intended to bring before him. Curiosity and an unpleasant sense of foreboding tugged at his mind but he turned his eyes back to the disgruntled fisherman before him.

"As I was saying," he continued where he had left off before the herald had entered. "It seems clear to me from the evidence that was presented at your earlier trial that you have indeed violated the laws regarding overfishing of the Sirion and I have decided that the judgment of the court and the fine that was levied upon you in sentencing shall stand. This case will not go to an appeal." The fisherman did not look pleased about the matter, and of course he had no reason to be, but he accepted the judgment and stood, bowing his was out of the room before the herald ushered Galadriel in.

Celeborn could see from the look on her face that, whatever this was about, it was very bad. "Celegorm and Curufin," Galadriel said, tight-lipped, pushing a letter across the desk towards Celeborn before she reached up to run her fingers through the short golden hair that was sprouting now from her head.

Celeborn idly noted to himself that Galadriel was possessed of the rare ability to look equally as beautiful with no hair as she did with a wealth of it. But he turned his attention to the letter, glancing at the seals of Nargothrond and Orodreth that Galadriel had broken in opening it.

"From Orodreth?" He asked, perusing the letter and Galadriel nodded, her jaw clenched tight in agitation, her eyes hard with repressed anger. "Curufin and Celegorm have taken up residence in Nargothrond…" he murmured, feeling a sinking feeling of dread as he read the words then read them again. "No wonder that Finrod had such a small band of soldiers with him. I had wondered but he said nothing of it."

"That is because he puts more trust in Orodreth than he ought to," Galadriel said crossly. "Indeed, he puts more trust in Orodreth than Orodreth puts in himself. Finrod is like Lúthien: too trusting of others."

"Cynicism, Galadriel?" Celeborn queried with a raised brow.

"Realism," she said with a frown.

"Tell me," Celeborn said, leaning back in his chair, fingers on his chin.

"As Orodreth's aunt or as the ambassador?" Galadriel asked, Celeborn could tell she was chomping at the bit to get her thoughts out.

"Both," he said.

"Orodreth is a lovely person," she said, "but he is too young and inexperienced to rule. Nor is he capable of keeping Curufin and Celegorm in line. Even Maedhros and Finrod have not been capable of that."

"Did Angrod not raise him as a prince?" Celeborn asked.

"He did," Galadriel said, "and Orodreth has the knowledge, and the intelligence, but he has not the heart for ruling. He does not want to be a king but now the role has been thrust upon him, and in the most difficult of times as well."

"Neither do I wish to be a king," Celeborn said and Galadriel sighed.

"But you would be good at it if you were," she said. "Even if you did not want it you would have the ability to lead. You would not hate it. But Orodreth is not a leader. That is not where his heart lies. It would be as if Galathil, a fine person though he is, were suddenly made King of Doriath." Celeborn pursed his lips.

"Then, in other words, Curufin and Celegorm are essentially ruling Nargothrond now," he said.

"Essentially yes," Galadriel said and Celeborn looked down at the long list of complaints and grievances that Orodreth had outlined in the letter. It was plain even from what Angrod's son had written that he wanted to be rid of this problem more than to solve it.

Celeborn sighed. "We must speak to Thingol about this," he said and Galadriel nodded.

"Yes," she said, "but I wanted a reasonable opinion first."

"Thingol will do nothing," Celeborn said, "for his mind is elsewhere, on this matter with Lúthien, and of late he has often ignored advice he should take and situations that he ought to deal with. Indeed, even I must admit that his hands are somewhat tied on this matter. The only way he would be able to restore Orodreth to sovereignty in Nargothrond would be to topple Curufin and Celegorm by military force and that, of course, would start a war with the rest of the Fëanorians. If Orodreth wants Curufin and Celegorm gone then he will have to do it himself, reluctant though he may be."

"And if it were your choice," Galadriel said. "If you were the king of Doriath and emperor of Beleriand." Celeborn stilled and the silence hung between them as he appraised his betrothed with a critical eye.

"That is a very dangerous game, Galadriel," he murmured, "a very dangerous game indeed. If someone were to overhear you speaking in such a way…"

"If you were king of Doriath," Galadriel said, narrowing her eyes, ignoring what he had just said. The conversation lapsed into silence once more. She was determined and Celeborn knew how she was when she was determined.

"I would march on Nargothrond and install you as Queen regnant there," Celeborn said. "Then I would solidify that alliance by marrying you and making you queen consort of Doriath. You are the daughter of Finarfin. Even if Maedhros and Maglor sought to topple you, which they wouldn't, Fingon and Turgon would never support your ousting, even if they might turn a blind eye to Curufin deposing Orodreth. You would be too powerful to challenge," he said.

"You have already thought this through," Galadriel mused with a grin.

"I planned for that contingency the night that I realized Felagund was marching into peril," Celeborn said.

"Indeed, you are never without a plan, are you," Galadriel said.

"A plan it is, but it is still a bad plan," Celeborn said. "I would not choose war unless no other path was left open to me. Still, it seems to me that there is no good way out of this, not unless Orodreth can oust them, and even then a kingdom in the hands of a reluctant king is an endangered one."

"So it is," Galadriel said, growing solemn once more and her eyes flashed with ire. "They have doomed Finrod," she said, "and what is worse, I fear…nay, I know that the oath of Fëanor has been awakened and is again at work. They know what it is that Finrod and Beren set out to do and if Beren succeeds then they will come to Doriath and, girdle or no, they will find a way into this kingdom and they will seek the Silmaril, and vengeance along with it."

"As I am not king of Doriath, what would you advise?" Celeborn asked her.

"Impose strict trade sanctions on Nargothrond until such time as Orodreth is restored to power," Galadriel said. "And Doriath must openly declare in support of my nephew and make our stance against Curufin and Celegorm's rule known. You are right that it would be madness for Doriath to go to war to restore my nephew to power just as you are right that Thingol would never agree to such a thing. But we can at least hurt their pocketbooks and that will certainly garner the attention of the Fingolfinians, who might be persuaded to put pressure on them to leave Nargothrond. Do you think that Thingol would agree to that?" She asked and Celeborn nodded.

"He sees the sons of Fëanor as his enemy," Celeborn said, "and so long as we do not ask him to send an army I believe he will see this response as appropriate, no matter the anger he may feel towards us." Galadriel nodded in understanding.

"There is one more thing you should know," she said, "a personal matter." Celeborn raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "I spoke to Lúthien regarding my vision."

"How was she?" Celeborn asked. "I have hardly seen her these past few weeks."

"Unwell," Galadriel said softly, shaking her head. "Her handmaidens were under strict orders that I should not be allowed to see her but a few jewels given in secret solved that problem," she sighed. "This all weights so heavily upon her heart. I have never seen her so sad. And, to imagine that it was her own father and mother who stripped away her hard-won happiness…the thought is abhorrent."

"Are you sure that telling her was the right thing to do?" Celeborn asked. "In her current state of mind she may act rashly."

"I thought that she had a right to know. And she is familiar with foresight. She understands what visions can show and what they can't, what they may mean and what they may not. Besides, it may very well be that she is the only one with her best interests at heart," Galadriel said. "Thingol and Melian are certainly not doing what is right so perhaps someone else ought to."

"Have you told her aught of Curufin or Celegorm and how they have set themselves against Finrod and Beren?" Celeborn asked but Galadriel shook her head.

"No," she told him, "for I learned that news after I had already spoken to her."

"Very well," Celeborn said, "then let us go to Thingol now and speak to him of this matter regarding your cousins."

"Cancel the rest of my appointments," he instructed his herald on their way out. "There is an important matter of state to which I must attend." And so they left, going in search of the king, steeling their hearts against whatever unpredictable response he might have or worse, the complete apathy he might show at learning the part that Curufin and Celegorm had played in engineering Felagund's death.

Yet Thingol was curiously absent from his throne room and they found it dark and empty, though he was supposed to have been holding court today. Neither was he in his chambers, nor anywhere else he usually frequented, and all of their inquiries were met only with guilty eyes and vague answers that concealed far more than they revealed. With a feeling of creeping dread they at last made their way out of the caverns to the lawn before Menegroth where the great beech Hírilorn stood and found to their dismay that all about the mighty tree there was a great commotion. The crowd was so thick that, even for her height, Galadriel could hardly see what was going on.

"What is happening?" She and Celeborn queried as they slowly began to push their way through the crowd, but it seemed that no one dared answer and they received only furtive, half-fearful glances. Drawing closer at last they saw Thingol standing before the great beech, directing a slew of builders who were hurrying about and there, in the branches of the tree, they could see that the king had had constructed a little wooden house. Though they could not yet discern its purpose, the sight caused their hearts to grow cold with dread and what hope they might have had evaporated as quickly as mist at dawn. Then, from within that house came the gasping, weakened, pitiful sobs of Lúthien.

"He has imprisoned her!" Galadriel gasped in shock and she began to fight her way forward now, all care for propriety gone as she pushed the people aside.

"He has gone completely mad," she heard Celeborn whisper. But Thingol had seen them coming and already the guards had approached at the king's command, pushing them back into the crowd.

"The king has commanded that you are to be kept away!" She heard one of them arguing with Celeborn, who looked as if he had nearly reached the point of drawing his knife once more.

"Have you forgotten where your loyalty lies?" He was shouting, red-faced at the guard. "Have you no love for this kingdom? She is my cousin! She is as my sister! Let me go to her!"

"The king orders you obey his commands." The guards said but Galadriel fixed her eyes on theirs until they had not the strength anymore to withstand her gaze and in their hearts she saw fear and doubt as certain as night follows day.

*****

"Paniel!" Galadriel called as she entered her chambers. Paniel always made it a point to never come immediately when Galadriel called for her but to always make her wait a few moments and so Galadriel waited beside her wardrobe for the handmaiden. Usually she was patient with Paniel's antics. After all, as Paniel had pointed out herself, she knew what she was getting into when she hired her. But, in these past few weeks since Thingol had imprisoned Lúthien, Galadriel had little patience for anyone and she stood now tapping her foot in agitation, arms crossed over her chest as she awaited her handmaiden.

"You called," Paniel said as she made her habitually tardy appearance, and Galadriel's eyes went wide, for Paniel's head was completely shaved. What annoyance she had felt disappeared immediately and left only curiosity in its wake.

"Yes…I, uh…would you mind undoing the laces?" Galadriel asked and Paniel moved to do as she asked while Galadriel puzzled over why her head was shaved and settled upon the inevitable conclusion that she had done it herself as a display of solidarity although she was completely lost as to the reason that she might have done so for she certainly bore Galadriel no affection and she seemingly view Celeborn with a sort of apathy. However, Galadriel knew that asking Paniel outright was sure to cause her pride to flare up.

"I mind," Paniel said, undoing the laces.

"What?" Galadriel asked having completely forgotten what she had asked her handmaiden only a moment earlier.

"I was reading and you interrupted me," Paniel said. "It really is a bother."

"My apologies," Galadriel said. Sometimes she almost felt as though she waited on Paniel, rather than the other way around. There was probably no other handmaiden who spoke to her mistress so informally or showed such a blatant disregard for the established rules of etiquette.

"Nobody wants your apologies, Galadriel," Paniel replied in a tone so dry that Galadriel could not tell if she was being serious or facetious. But there was almost something comforting in it, as though Paniel was reminding her of what was really important. The handmaiden finished unlacing the dress and Galadriel stepped out of it, moving to her vanity.

"You were employed at Himlad were you not?" Galadriel began her line of inquiry as she sat at her vanity in her shift, removing her jewelry and makeup. Paniel was folding the complicated Noldorin garments that her mistress had worn to court today and she looked up, startled at the question.

"What does it matter?" She asked sourly, her eyes glinting with suspicion, but there was something else there in her gaze, something Galadriel could not quite read. She pressed on.

"I had heard that Celeborn brought you back from there when he and Lúthien carried Thingol's decree banning Quenya to Curufin," Galadriel said, carefully watching Paniel in the mirror. She saw her flinch at the sound of her cousin's name. "I had heard that it was he who knocked out your teeth." Paniel drew her lips into a tight line.

"Aye," Paniel said at last after a pregnant pause, but Galadriel could tell that she still had her guard up. She turned back to the mirror, taking out her other earring and placed it in her jewelry box.

"It wasn't the worst thing he ever did to me." She heard Paniel say from behind her and turned around. Her handmaiden's eyes were hard with anger but it was the slow, simmering kind, not the burning conflagration of Celeborn's fury.

"What did he do?" Galadriel asked but Paniel made no reply, concentrating instead on folding the clothes. Galadriel tried a different strategy. It felt like playing some morbid game of chess.

"You told me once that you know how to fight," Galadriel said. "Was that merely for intimidation's sake or…"

"I wouldn't say anything that wasn't true," Paniel interrupted her, straightening, her eyes flashing with latent anger. "My father was an expert with knives and he raised me in the wilderness. I could skin a buck before most children could read."

"And where is your father now?" Galadriel asked.

"Dead," Paniel said.

"Was it orcs…" Galadriel began to ask.

"No," Paniel interrupted her curtly.

"Curufin then?" Galadriel questioned.

"It wasn't him either," Paniel said and Galadriel noted some strange darkness in her eyes.

"I am sorry for the loss of you father," she said at last.

"Don't be," Paniel replied and the conversation fell silent for a while.

"What would you do if you ever saw Curufin again?" Galadriel asked.

"I would slit his fucking throat," Paniel said without hesitation, looking up to meet Galadriel's eyes. They stared at each other in silent détente.

"Why did you refuse the order he gave you in Quenya even though you knew he would hurt you for it?" Galadriel asked and Paniel's eyes narrowed.

"Because it was what needed to be done," she said.

"Then if, in days to come, unpleasant things must be done," Galadriel said, her eyes hard, "what would you do?" And now it was Paniel who looked at Galadriel somewhat warily, as though she had underestimated her. The silence stretched between them and Paniel gave no answer. Galadriel turned back to her vanity, shutting her jewelry box, assuming that Paniel did not wish to answer. The handmaiden moved to the wardrobe, putting her mistress's clothes away, and then she came to stand behind Galadriel and Galadriel stood, turning to her, meeting her gaze.

"I would do what needs to be done," Paniel said, not a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. "And you?"

"I would do what needs to be done," Galadriel affirmed with conviction. And indeed she would, even as she had done in Alqualondë. But now, looking into Paniel's eyes, she saw something she had not expected, something she had never noticed before. But no, that wasn't true, she had seen it before only she had not wanted to realize it, had not wanted to acknowledge it for that would have meant coming to terms with her own past. Only now that she had come to terms with her role in the kinslaying, she saw it freely and unobscured: Paniel had killed before, and not only deer as she had said.

"You are not what you appear to be," Galadriel said, oddly satisfied, profoundly intrigued.

"Most people are not what they appear to be," Paniel replied. But before they could continue their conversation, their attention was drawn by some great commotion outside in the city and the sound of a slamming door and quick footsteps that heralded the entrance of Celeborn. He bent over, out of breath, and gasped, "Lúthien has escaped!"

*****

Footnotes! Hey guys, don't forget to let me know in reviews or PMs which character you would like me to talk about in the upcoming author's notes in order of preference. We only have 9 chapters left so I want to make sure we get to everybody that you want to hear about! I think Finrod is next week. Let me know who you want for the week after next. 


	31. Belly of the Beast

  
**Belly of the Beast**  
In Cavern's Shade: 31st Chapter

*****

"When the legends die,  
the dreams end;  
there is no more greatness."

\- Tecumseh

*****

**Author’s note:**

 **Character profile:** Finrod!

Some of the characters in this story I decided to let develop organically as the story progressed. Celeborn is one of these. Some of them I had planned a character arc for them. Finrod is one of these. And some of them are a mixture of both. Galadriel is one of these. 

A big part of the reason I planned Finrod’s arc is because I knew that he would be making limited appearances and I knew that he was going to die before the end of the story. So, whereas Galadriel and Celeborn had more time and room to develop organically, Finrod didn’t. I knew, however, that I really wanted Finrod and his story to play a central role in this fic because I really like him and because I really wanted to examine his relationship with Galadriel. 

When I was reading the Silmarillion I couldn’t help but like him, but I felt like the surface portrayal of him was kind of shallow and that Tolkien was expecting us to read a lot into him as a character without explicitly stating it. So I wanted to examine what that might be that he meant us to examine. Looking at the events of Finrod’s life, leading his siblings into exile, leaving their parents, not turning back with Finarfin, leaving Amarië behind, the kinslaying, I couldn’t help but feel that of all the exiles Finrod probably felt the most guilt over everything that happened. And, in this story there are really two things that drive him: his guilt and his love for his sister.

I was talking earlier about how Galadriel is very introspective and aware of her emotions and feelings. I think Finrod is even more so. He really has a lot of guilt and fear over everything that happened and everything he did and, for a while, he allowed this to drive him in a negative direction, as Thingol is now. He also has the same foresight as Galadriel but when he was still allowing his fear and guilt to control him he was afraid of the visions he was seeing and he couldn’t really cope with foreseeing his own death and all the terrible things that would happen to the people he loved. His way of dealing with that was to disparage Galadriel for her visions. Because if he made himself think that her visions were false then he could believe that his own were false too and that maybe none of the bad things would happen.

At this point, with his other brothers living far away in the North and being much closer to each other than to him, Galadriel was really the only thing that he had left and so he became extremely overly protective of her. In a way it is almost a variation on the theme that Thingol is experiencing now. Finrod was really afraid of Galadriel getting into a relationship with Celeborn because he thought that would mean he would lose her, and in a way he did, but that is just how relationships work. Finrod had lost so much already that he saw this as unbearable and was willing to hurt Galadriel to stop this from happening. He saw it as the lesser of the evils, so to speak, and convinced himself it was better for her in the long run.

But, when Galadriel decided to leave Nargothrond and take her fate into her own hands this was really a turning point for Finrod. It made him acknowledge a lot of hard truths about himself. It forced him to confront his guilt and his fears. It forced him to acknowledge that the visions were real and he couldn’t run away from them. It forced him to realize that the way he had been treating Galadriel wasn’t for her own good and it was just because he was being selfish and fearful. It forced him to take his fate into his own hands too. In a way, Galadriel saved him from who he was becoming and he really respects and loves her for that. 

He could have locked her up in Nargothrond and forced her to stay there but instead he chose to let her go. Here again, we see a parallel with Thingol who makes the opposite choice. At this point I think it is really easy to look at Thingol and say “he is being stupid and selfish.” But you have to remember that Finrod and Thingol grew up in two separate worlds. Thingol literally grew up steeped in death, and fear, and suspicion, and distrust because that is what you needed to have to survive in Middle Earth. Finrod, however, grew up in Valinor where he had little experience with fear, suspicion, and distrust before the events leading up to the exile. 

When Tolkien says that the Calaquendi grew up in Aman and had the benefit of the teaching of the Valar a lot of people interpret this as meaning the Noldor, Teleri, and Vanyar are racially superior to the Umanyar. And from the books it seems like Feanor interpreted this the same way. But I think in the Silmarillion Tolkien teaches us not to trust Feanor’s judgment because it is crazy bad. So I think what Tolkien is really saying about the Calaquendi having the benefit of the Valar is what I have said in the above paragraph, not that they are racially superior, but that they were almost innocent of evil in a way and that allowed them to see things and make choices in a way that the Umanyar (Moriquendi) couldn’t because of their different life circumstances. And, honestly, sometimes it is that Calaquendi innocence that gets them killed or that leads them to make unwise decisions while the Sindar and green elves, for example, survive precisely because their distrust and suspicion makes them more suited for life in Middle Earth.

Anyway, I think just plain, flat, noble Finrod is a boring character and I wanted him to be dynamic and have a lot of depth. In the end Finrod is confronted with fear and love, and he chooses love even though it means death. I think it is his struggle, his confronting his fear, his courage in the face of everything he has been through and everything he will face that truly makes him heroic. I wanted to do him justice. Because Finrod deserves justice. And, because Finrod is a hero. And…now I want to cry.

Rest in peace Finrod. You were really one of my favorite characters and it was always an honor to write you. I am truly going to miss you.

*****

“He is sending you out again?” Galadriel asked, exasperated, as she helped Celeborn put on his leather hunting armor. Thingol had kept all of the watches on duty both day and night for months at a time searching for Lúthien. It had been a while since Celeborn had been sent to the fences but in the past few months it seemed that he went out again nearly as soon as he returned and meanwhile, Galadriel tossed and turned in a lonely bed, haunted by the words that Melian had spoken.

“Would you stop searching, even after all of these months, if it were our child who was missing in the wilderness?” Celeborn asked her softly and Galadriel turned her eyes to his, filled with sadness, but she looked away again quickly, uncomfortable, the words of Melian’s prophecy echoing once more in her mind.

“Never,” she whispered, concentrating on fastening the last buckle of his spaulders but her hands stilled as Celeborn pulled her against him, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and she sighed. “Does Thingol suspect anything?” She asked, stepping back and fastening a cloak about Celeborn’s shoulders.

“Thingol always suspects something,” Celeborn said, “whether or not there is something of which he ought to be suspicious.” Indeed, it was so, and in the past few months this trait had become even more pronounced until suspicion alone was nearly all that remained of the king.

“But this time his suspicions are justified,” Galadriel said with worry. “If he knew that you were hiding the tracks she left behind…destroying evidence…”

“What else should I do, Galadriel? I am not about to bring Lúthien back to be imprisoned once more,” Celeborn said, a hint of agitation in his voice. She knew how hard things had been for him of late, and she hadn’t meant to imply that she believed him to be doing the wrong thing in concealing Lúthien’s trail but, like his uncle, Celeborn had a habit of reading too much into innocent words when under stress. Galadriel gave him a look to remind him of this and he appeared duly chastised.

“I know,” she said, “nor would I wish you to do so. Only…do be careful will you? I would hate to behold his wrath if he were to discover what you have been doing.” 

“He is already quite furious with me. He thinks that all of the citizens shaving their heads have done so at my behest, seeking to undermine his authority.” 

“What need have you to undermine his authority?” Galadriel scoffed. “He undermines his own authority easily enough.” It was true. It was Thingol who had pitted himself against Celeborn, not the other way around, and it had not worked out as well as he doubtlessly hoped that it would. Then again, Celeborn had never meant to form any sort of organized opposition to the King. It had happened of its own accord. That, perhaps, Galadriel thought to herself, was why the king had been keeping the prince on the borders so frequently of late, and so far from Menegroth.

Celeborn gave her a small smile of encouragement. “As for Lúthien,” he said, “she was quite covert. Even I have had an extremely difficult time of tracking her movements and none of the other wardens are as skilled at tracking as I am. They do not suspect me. Indeed, I rather suspect that they might be doing the same as me. There are many among the wardens who have shaved their heads and stand for our cause.”

“Where does Lúthien wander?” Galadriel asked. 

“Near the western eaves of Doriath,” Celeborn told her, “towards the guarded plain.” Galadriel nodded.

“I only hope that she will remain unharmed,” she said. She did worry for her friend, but then again, any warg that encountered Lúthien was sure to get the worse end of that deal.

“Do not forget that the blood of the maiar runs in her veins,” Celeborn said Galadriel sighed, smoothing her hands across his cape. “Besides, she is a woman in love and, what I have learned of women in love is that there is absolutely nothing that can stop them.” Galadriel grinned.

“Be safe,” she said, meeting his gaze, “you know that Sauron has sent forth many wolves of late, strange creatures with unnatural power.”

“You need not fear for my safety,” Celeborn told her with a grin, “though I appreciate the effort on your part. I will return to you unharmed, as I always do; I swear it.” Galadriel looked down to where their hands were joined, her eyes lingering upon the two bands of silver and pearl.

“I don’t know how you can be so light-hearted at a time like this,” she told him, shaking her golden head and giving him a suspicious glare. Celeborn pinched her cheek with a grin.

“I am at peace with my fate, whatever that may be,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I know where I stand and what I believe. I have Finrod to thank for that.”

“I wish I knew…” Galadriel began, her words faltering. She wished she knew whether her brother were alive or dead, but of late no visions had come to her and besides, even if they did come she was not sure whether she could trust them or not. Even Melian had admitted, in the midst of all her fury, that she could not quite discern her own visions. 

“It sounds a callous thing to say,” Celeborn said softly, understanding her heart, “but try not to dwell on it. It will only drive you mad with worry.” Galadriel nodded as her betrothed pulled her into his arms once more. “I must be going,” he said into her hair. They stepped apart and he bent to pick up his bow and quiver. “Will you come see us off?”

“I will,” Galadriel said, taking a deep breath, holding her head high. But then, just as they were about to exit their chambers she put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “One more thing,” she said as he turned back to her, “to remember me by,” and, smiling, she pulled him into a deep kiss. They did not part for what seemed like hours, each lingering in the taste of the other, relishing in the parting of lips, but at last, after a few moments they broke apart once more, exiting their chambers and making for the gates of Menegroth. 

The rooms seemed much quieter when Galadriel returned to them, and far lonelier, for Celeborn’s servants were out and Paniel made a habit of holing herself up in her room. Galadriel seated herself on the armrest of a chair, staring into the fire for a moment and pursing her lips as her mind began to turn towards Melian. But those dark thoughts were interrupted by a sharp and almost frantic knocking upon the door and she looked up, curious, suppressing a grin as she heard Paniel’s groan of annoyance from down the hall and then her sluggish footsteps going to the door. 

“The Lady Venessiel,” the handmaiden said, appearing a moment later looking exceedingly cross. 

“Very well, show her in,” Galadriel said, “and if you would bring some tea and biscuits I would be very appreciative.” She took note of Paniel’s sour look as the flaxen-haired Sinda trudged once more down the hallway. Galadriel’s curiosity had grown, for she had certainly not been expecting such a visit. A moment later Venessiel appeared, ushered in with a curt bow from Paniel. 

“Lady Venessiel,” Galadriel said, standing to greet the minister of the treasury, “an unexpected honor.” The minister looked as regal as ever, in a stylish and opulent gown of rich, burnt-orange jacquard silk with gold thread, a collar of blazing sapphires set in gold at her throat. The rich, dark, mahogany curls of her long hair hung free to her waist. Venessiel cleared her throat and gave Galadriel an awkward nod, her eyes darting about nervously, her hands clasped tightly before her. 

“Is Celeborn here?” She asked at last, coughing as though her throat were dry.

“I am afraid you have just missed him,” Galadriel said. “He shall be on the borders these next two weeks but if you would like to leave a message for him…”

“No, no,” Venessiel said, breathing a sigh of relief. “No. I…I came to see you. I was rather hoping that he would be gone in fact and I am glad to hear that he is.” Galadriel wondered at the purpose for her visit but Paniel had arrived with the tea and biscuits and so she gestured for the minister to take a seat as Paniel served them and, once the handmaiden had returned to her room, Venessiel began to speak once more.

“Celeborn…I…” Venessiel raised her blue eyes to Galadriel’s and came to a halt before she found the courage to speak again, “I assume he has told you about what I did…about the debts…”

“Ah,” Galadriel stammered, realizing now what this was about. “Yes.” She saw little use in denying it but she wondered why the lady would bring it up. Venessiel let out a shuddering breath.

“Forgive me for speaking of matters long gone by but I wondered if that was the reason that you did not accept the position I offered you,“ Venessiel admitted. “You see…Thingol knew that Celeborn had lost a good deal of money but he did not know that it was because of me. Celeborn protected me, told the king he had lost it gambling. Even in his anger he had mercy.” She paused again and then continued in a flurry of words, her hands trembling and she set down the teacup she held as though she were afraid she would drop it. Galadriel sat, listening attentively, feeling as though everything were becoming clearer, though she still did not quite understand what Venessiel’s purpose was.

“You must think me very stupid, and mad, and cruel besides,” Venessiel said, dropping her eyes in shame. “I bordered on desperation when you refused my offer. I thought it meant that you planned to tell the king what I had done and that I would lose my position, that Oropher and I would be cast out, and he could never live like that, as an exile. He is too fond of the luxuries that nobility affords him, of this sort of life and the respect that he receives as a result. He would have hated me.”

“I am certain your husband could never hate you,” Galadriel said as though this were a ridiculous idea. “Surely he prizes your love above treasures…”

Venessiel shook her dark head with a small and sad smile upon her rouged lips. “I do not mean to speak against my husband,” she said quietly. “I love him, and his heart is good, but he is a harsh man and just as my greed and my vanity are my own downfall, his envy and jealousy is his.”

Galadriel set her own cup down now, understanding that Venessiel was confiding something very private in her, though to what end she did not yet know. “What are you saying?” Galadriel asked, seeking further clarity, and Venessiel drew in a deep breath.

“Oropher does not know of my debt either,” she said. “He would not understand. He envies Celeborn so very much, envies him Thingol’s affection, his position…and he grows angry whenever he remembers that I was once Celeborn’s lover. He holds a grudge against me for it and I thought that if he knew what I had done then he would come to despise me. So you see, when you turned down the position I thought I would lose everything: my work, my reputation, my husband. And I took your friend into my service thinking to use her against you if the need arose. But it never did and I saw then what my fault was: that I had assumed that everyone had as little integrity as I had, but you proved me wrong. For you could have betrayed me to the king, and maybe you should have, but you did not. I know that I did a horrible thing. I am not proud of it,” she finished, meeting Galadriel’s eyes and the Noldo was silent for a moment. 

“If your worst mistake is stealing money,” Galadriel said at last, “then I do not even know what we ought to call what I have done. I killed people, Venessiel.”

“I suppose that is true,” Venessiel said and, morbid though it was, the thought brought smiles to both of their faces.

“Celeborn has forgiven you the debt,” Galadriel told her, “as he has surely told you. Neither of us expects that you repay it. Indeed, it is a preposterous sum to expect one person to come up with.”

“Still it weighs upon me,” Venessiel said. “I wish that I could repay it and I would, if there were any way, I would.”

“Let bygones be bygones,” Galadriel said with a comforting smile. “And you needn’t fear that we mean to tell Thingol, for we do not. That is in the past and forgotten for us, but perhaps you ought to tell the king.” Venessiel nodded. 

“I know,” she told her. “And I will. Today is the first step forward. Tomorrow I will take another and then another.”

“Why did you not tell me earlier?” Galadriel asked her then. “Had you explained all of this to me at the start then my suspicion would not have lain so heavily upon you.” And Venessiel cast her eyes down, ashamed.

“As I have said. My pride and my vanity prevented me. I was always working only for myself and thinking only of myself but now we are, all of us, caught up in something greater than any of us and I would do my part, if I am able,” she said. “I have served this kingdom my entire life. I have served Doriath with devotion and now the king is throwing away everything that I have worked for, everything that we all have worked for. After Lúthien’s imprisonment and escape I found that I could no longer support him, not while he continues like this. And I think that if we want to save our kingdom then we must take a stand, as Celeborn has done, as you have done, as so many others have started to do. What is more, you and Celeborn saved me from Thingol’s wrath and Oropher’s displeasure with your silence. And so…if this is the only way I can repay that debt then I am glad to do it.”

“What are you saying?” Galadriel asked and Venessiel took a deep breath. 

“I…Galadriel…I want you to shave my head,” she said. Galadriel blinked in surprise. 

“Why me?” She asked.

“I…” Venessiel lifted a lock of hair to reveal a bald patch beneath it. “I tried to do it on my own,” she said, “but…my vanity overpowered my courage, as always. I was hoping that you might have the strength to do what I could not.”

Galadriel nodded solemnly, reaching out to take Venessiel’s hand. “Of course I will help you,” she said, “if this is what you truly wish.”

“It is,” Venessiel said, taking a shuddering breath.

“Will Oropher not be upset?” Galadriel asked. “He has supported the king through this ordeal.”

“Because he wishes to usurp Celeborn’s position,” Venessiel said, swallowing hard. “But let us not mind what Oropher thinks. I will deal with him.” Galadriel nodded.

“Then wait but a moment,” she said before going to retrieve a knife.

“I do not understand how you can be so forgiving of me,” Venessiel said, reaching up to wipe away the tears that had started to fall along with her hair.

“That,” Galadriel said, “is something that I learned from Lúthien’s example.”

*****

Ping… ping… ping... Galadriel closed her eyes, willing herself to be calm, not to turn around and unleash the torrent of harsh words she had stored up on Nimloth. She had barely been able to spend a moment with Celeborn since he had returned and now they had been saddled with the burden of Nimloth for the evening. The girl had for the last thirty minutes or so been taking the ornamental glass pebbles from one of Celeborn’s potted plants and aiming them at a silver bowl on the opposite side of the room. Celeborn reached over with a grin, rubbing Galadriel’s hand.

“I don’t think I want children any longer,” Galadriel whispered to him in Telerin and Celeborn repressed a snort of laughter, glancing at where Nimloth was lounging on a cushion against the back of the divan looking exceedingly bored, sporting the overly-thick lines of kohl around her eyes that she seemed so fond of and that Inwen was forever trying to wipe away.

“She looks like a raccoon,” Celeborn whispered back and now it was Galadriel’s turn to suppress laughter as Nimloth sighed in exaggerated boredom and yawned. She had also, it seemed, put some sort of pomade in her silver hair that made it look stiff and crunchy. 

“I truly hope that I did not act this way when I was her age and yet I fear that I must have,” Galadriel said, a dull ache awakening in her heart as she thought of how much Finrod would have loved to tell stories about her at that age, how he would have laughed at her displeasure.

“This is so boring!” Nimloth whined, turning her eyes towards her uncle and Galadriel. 

“Can you not be happy, Nimloth, that your parents are enjoying themselves?” Galadriel asked her, trying her best to sound kind rather than agitated. “It has been a very long while since they were able to have dinner by themselves.”

“That is well,” Nimloth said with an exaggerated sigh in a tone that sounded like she did not truly mean what she had said. “But I am old enough not to need minding. I don’t understand why they had to leave me here with you.”

“Do you dislike us so very much now?” Celeborn asked in his most facetious tone, but Nimloth was yet too young to understand that and so instead she took him seriously. 

“You’re very boring, sitting here and reading your books,” Nimloth grumbled, returning her attention to tossing the pebbles into the bowl. Ping, ping, ping, went the bowl. 

“When you are older, Nimloth, you will find that you appreciate every hard-won moment of boredom that comes your way,” Celeborn said and Nimloth sighed loudly, clearly communicating just what she thought of her uncle’s advice. 

“What would you rather be doing instead, Nimloth?” Galadriel asked. “Shall I tell you more stories of Aman? You used to like that when you were a child.”

“No,” Nimloth said. “That’s stupid stuff for babies and besides, nobody likes the Noldor anyway. I don’t want to listen to that stuff.” Galadriel rolled her eyes at Celeborn and he grinned at her over the top of his book before she returned her attention to his niece. 

“Well then, is there somewhere you would like to go?” Galadriel asked her. “I might be more enjoyable for all of us perhaps if we have a little outing. Isn’t that right, Celeborn?”

“Very right indeed,” he said, closing his book and setting it in his lap. “We can go wherever you like, Nimloth.”

“I want to be with my friends,” Nimloth said. “I haven’t gotten to see Lindir at all today.” She sighed again, not a sigh of boredom this time, but of forlorn love and Celeborn raised a silver eyebrow at Galadriel who choked back her laughter. “Nobody plays the harp like Lindir,” Nimloth said. “He’s going to start his own musical group and they’ll play at all the festivals.” Celeborn pressed a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut as his body shook with silent laughter. Galadriel was glad that Nimloth could not see them from the other side of the divan where she was sitting. 

“Shall we take you to meet your friends then?” Galadriel asked.

“Valar, no!” Nimloth shrieked. “I don’t want to be seen with you! You two with your hair all short! How embarrassing! Now I’m ashamed to be seen around my father as well and it is all your fault!”

“You should be proud that your father took a stand,” Celeborn said, growing stern.

“Well of course you would say that,” Nimloth complained. “You’re the one who disobeyed the king.”

“Sometimes the king does not always know best,” Celeborn said. “That is why he has advisors, so that he can have alternative perspectives.”

“Of course he knows best. That is why he is the king,” Nimloth retorted.

“Now look here,” Celeborn said, growing even sterner. He attempted to rise but Galadriel gave him a warning look and pulled him back down to his seat. “You are too young to understand such things, Nimloth.”

Of course, that only served to antagonize the girl further. “You grown ups think you know everything but you aren’t as smart as you think,” she said. Celeborn bit his lip to keep himself from saying something he might regret and Galadriel squeezed his hand to soothe him. 

“That may be so, Nimloth,” she said, bringing the conversation to an end. Silence reigned for a moment in which Celeborn, clearly still agitated, opened his book once more, but then the ping, ping, ping of the pebbles hitting the bowl started again and Celeborn and Galadriel’s heads both jerked up with a snap as their eyes grew wide in agitation. 

But they had no need to reprimand Nimloth, for a flurry of quick footsteps in the hallway heralded Paniel in her nightdress and dressing gown, a look of pure, unadulterated fury on her face. “Now look here little princess,” she spat, coming to a halt before the girl, who was staring up at her wide-eyed in terror now, “you do that one more time and I swear upon Námo and his halls that I shall make you regret it!”

Galadriel and Celeborn craned their necks so that they could see Nimloth, scooting as far back against the divan as she could, attempting to put as much space between Paniel and herself as possible. “You let your servants talk to you this way?” Nimloth exclaimed in a panic as Paniel towered over her in anger.

“I talk however I want to talk,” Paniel said.

“Indeed, it is impossible to stop her,” Celeborn added.

“Not one more,” Paniel said, pointing a warning finger at Nimloth. “And you,” she turned her blazing eyes on Celeborn and Galadriel, “ought to learn how to discipline children or else I shall certainly not be taking care of your little brats when you have them at last.” With that she turned to go back to her room, but she found Celeborn’s page blocking her way.

“Move,” she commanded him ferociously and the page, cowering in fear, stepped aside to let her pass. 

“Your Highness, Lady Ambassador,” he said, “there has been an urgent missive from Nargothrond and His Majesty the King requires the presence of all of his counselors immediately.” Paniel had returned out of curiosity, hovering behind the page.

“From Nargothrond?” Galadriel gasped, her heart suddenly seized with a dark foreboding, and she and Celeborn leapt to their feet. 

“But what shall we do about Nimloth?” Celeborn said.

“Oh don’t worry,” Paniel said from behind the page, “I will take good care of her. She’ll be docile as a kitten when you return.” Nimloth gulped loudly.

A few moments later, Celeborn and Galadriel were following the page at a jog, heading for Thingol’s council chamber, wondering what fresh horror was afoot and anticipating the myriad ways that Thingol might react. They had expected anger, outrage, fierce pride, everything except what they saw when at last they were ushered in through the door. 

Celeborn was reminded of a rabbit that he had encountered in the woods once upon a time whose leg had been caught in a bear trap. It had been so mangled and bloodied that he knew it could never survive and yet the creature had clung to life in futile desperation as he approached, its tiny chest heaving with short, quick breaths, its eyes darting about in fear, its nose quivering as it smelt his approach. He had not wanted to kill it, but he knew that the animal was in pain and suffering, that death would be a mercy to it and so, though he hated doing it, he had broken its neck: a quick and painless death. 

Thingol sat in his chair like a man lost, trembling from head to toe, his face old and haggard looking, his body seeming thin and worn, like butter scraped over too much bread, his eyes dark and sunken. At his side stood Melian, weak and frail, looking equally as shaken. And, as they entered the king looked up at them, his eyes suddenly filled with profound sadness and regret and, as his gaze met Celeborn’s he began to weep with abandon, the tears flowing forth from him like a river at flood. “What have I done?” He cried. “What have I done?” The madness had passed.

“Go to him,” Galadriel said, perceiving that the king truly repented, as she placed a gentle hand on Celeborn’s shoulder but the prince did not move for a moment, standing as if he were made of stone, every muscle in his body tensed but then, at last, he strode forward and Thingol welcomed him into his embrace and they stood for a while in the silence of uneasy forgiveness while the counselors cast down their eyes. And, for the briefest of moments, Melian’s gaze met Galadriel’s before the queen too looked away.

At last the king and the prince drew apart and Celeborn placed his hand on his uncle’s shoulder asking, “what has happened?” 

Then Thingol gestured with a shaking hand to the letter that lay upon the table, a letter that bore the seal of Fëanor, and that of Curufin and Celegorm as well. The king moved to speak but his words died on his lips. And Venessiel stood, speaking in his place.

“Messengers from Nargothrond arrived at the borders this morning,” she said quietly. “The princess has been captured by Curufin and Celegorm. Celegorm demands her hand in marriage and demands a formal alliance between the sons of Fëanor and Doriath. They have had word that Finrod and Beren have perished at Sauron’s hand.” The silence of the room was broken only by the quite sobs of Thingol and Galadriel watched as Melian, looking a frail shadow of her powerful self now, placed a trembling hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“What blame you place upon yourself,” she said to her husband in a choked voice, “must be laid equally upon me.” But still the king said nothing, overwhelmed as he was by the depth of his grief, thinking that he had given his daughter over to imprisonment and rape.

“They will not touch a hair on Lúthien’s head ere she destroys them,” Celeborn said, quivering in anger.

“Aye, she is strong, stronger than they could ever hope to be,” Saeros said, rising to his feet, nodding to Celeborn.

“Only tell us what we must do and we shall do it,” Venessiel said, slamming her fist down upon the table. “All of Doriath stands behind the princess.”

“Tell me,” Galadriel said, coming to the King’s side, “what news have your spies brought, for I know that you have ears and eyes all over Beleriand. Perhaps this is a ruse on the part of my cousins.”

“It is no ruse,” Thingol said weakly, raising his silver head at last. “They saw Lúthien enter Nargothrond but they have not seen her leave. What is more, there is no reason to doubt what they have said regarding Beren and Felagund, for recently those elves that Sauron had held captive have been seen in Beleriand, fleeing west, though my spies know not what has passed in Tol-in-Gaurhoth for they dare no approach that place out of fear for their lives.”

“It is an act of war,” Mablung said, his copper eyes flashing fiercely, “to hold your heir hostage. They seek to bring all of the elven realms under their rule. Command us to fight and the army of Doriath will stand strong.”

“I have not the strength to go to war against the six sons of Fëanor,” Thingol said, shaking so badly that he could no longer support his own weight. It was the truth and they all knew it, knew their own impotency. The king collapsed into his chair while Melian pressed her head to his shoulder, her tears falling freely. “I have not the strength to rescue her,” he said, his voice a strangled whisper.

“Send me,” Galadriel said and the room fell silent. Thingol raised his eyes to her once more and Galadriel met them with courage. “Send me to Nargothrond. An army of Doriath would be opposed by all of the Fëanorians, yes, but Maedhros and Maglor will not stand against the daughter of Finarfin. I can depose Celegorm and Curufin. I can restore Orodreth to power in Nargothrond.” She could feel her heart burning within her like an ember, her rage with her cousins, her heartbreak over her brothers, her desire to protect Doriath and Nargothrond all rising to rhyme. 

There was a pregnant pause before Thingol spoke, “I cannot allow you to march upon Nargothrond with a Doriathrin army,” he said. “That too would bring war, daughter of Finarfin though you may be.”

“I am not asking for an army,” she said. “I will go alone, not as a representative of Doriath, but as that of my brother and my father’s house.” Murmurs of disbelief rose up amongst the counselors and Thingol seemed perplexed. “I am Felagund’s sister,” Galadriel said. “I can overthrow them without aid. Only give me a small escort, enough to see me unharmed through the journey, but I need no army to take Nargothrond. I swear that Curufin and Celegorm shall fall at my feet.” There was no doubt in her heart that she could do this. And, she knew that Celeborn believed in her, that he knew she could do it as well, he had said as much only a few months earlier.

“What she says is true,” Melian said and Thingol sat, lost in thought for a moment.

“It is dangerous,” he said at last, but the fear that had possessed him earlier was dissipating now and it seemed almost that hope was growing in his eyes.

“I know,” Galadriel said, holding her head high, her eyes burning with determination. “But for Lúthien’s sake, for Doriath’s sake, for the sake of Finrod’s memory, I am determined to do this thing. They plotted my brother’s death. Of Finarfin’s four children only I now remain. I will avenge Finrod.”

“Is there any opposition to this plan?” Thingol asked quietly and not a single one of the counselors raised a hand in protest. “Then we are resolved to go forward?” The king asked and, this time, every hand rose into the air.

“What do you need?” Thingol asked, turning his eyes back towards Galadriel.

“I would have made the banner of my father and also of Finwë, my forefather,” Galadriel said, “as well as armor in the likeness of that worn by my brothers.”

“Then let it be as you have said,” Thingol replied. “The hope and trust of Doriath rests in you.”

“I shall endeavor to be worthy of the honor,” Galadriel replied. And yet, despite the fire burning in her soul, Melian’s glance made her feel as though she had been plunged into the frigid winter waters of the Sirion.

*****

The day before she was meant to travel to Nargothrond, something, she knew not what, had possessed Galadriel’s heart and she had arisen, stealing from the bed where Celeborn still slept soundly, her feet making their own way over the mossy paths of the thousand caves, over the singing brooks and between the tall beeches until she found herself in a part of Menegroth in which she had never before wandered.

It was a deserted and wild place, filled with tall beeches upon which silver lanterns flickered gently in the gathering twilight, and Galadriel clutched her dressing gown about her more tightly in the dawning spring evening as she gazed up at the pearlescent moon that was just beginning her trek across Menegroth’s enchanted ceiling. 

She was not alone, she knew, for it was impossible to be near power like Melian’s and not know it, but she could not yet see the queen, or else Melian had not yet deigned to make herself visible. And so Galadriel wandered in that place, observing the jewels that lay scattered across the streambeds and the silvery fish, as bright as those jewels, darting to and fro. She closed her eyes as she walked amongst the trees, touching them with her fingertips, trying to hear their voices as Celeborn had taught her. 

And, when she opened her eyes again she saw at last Melian through the trees, walking parallel to her, dressed all in white, her midnight dark hair hanging loose to her white feet. They walked in silence for some time before either of them spoke.

“Did you really see it,” Galadriel asked quietly, “that my children will come to ruin, that the son I bear Celeborn will perish within me, that my womb will turn to dust?” She asked, fearing the answer, and the queen turned towards her, watching her through the trees as a deer watches a hunter. They came to a stop.

Melian turned towards her, speaking in a voice like the rumble of thunder, “tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.” The prophecy of Mandos faded into silence and then Melian spoke once more, “your fate I have seen,” she said.

“Can change it?” Galadriel asked and the queen remained silent. The Noldorin maid found that her hands were trembling, her throat tight.

“I see in shards of truth and facets of the future,” Melian said, her voice deep and low. “I perceive time in wrinkles of what may come to pass, in glimpses and moments and shattered fragments of a whole that I see but dimly, as through a tarnished mirror, even as you see them.” She resumed the path she had been tracing through the woods and Galadriel began to walk again too. 

Melian’s body seemed to grow and shrink almost imperceptibly, pulsating, beating, as if she herself were a heart and Menegroth the body, pouring her magic out into the veins of the city, into the very fiber of the universe. She turned towards Galadriel once more, her eyes unreadable and, indeed, they had almost ceased to be eyes, for what Galadriel saw there instead where eyes should have been was blackness, like windows through which she saw a galaxy of stars. 

“Lúthien I never thought to lose, for all of my foresight,” Meian said in that same deep voice, as if she had pulled it up from the foundations of the earth, “not until the fateful night that Beren set foot in this palace. I did not see it, or perhaps I did not want to see it. But the board is set now, the pieces in motion, and the fall comes.”

Then Galadriel stood still but Melian moved on, resuming her slow pace, and for a moment she seemed to tower taller than any of the trees, reaching up the heavens, massive and formless as a cloud one moment, her image flickering like a candle about to go out in the next, and behind her like rain fell black feathers from her hair.

*****

The escort came to a halt under the western eaves of Doriath, the bright sun of midday shining down upon their glistening armor as the banners of Finarfin and Finwë fluttered proudly in the breeze.

“Our paths will part here,” Celeborn said. “For I must return to Menegroth now.” He shifted in his saddle, glancing to where Galadriel rode on his right atop a white stallion. She was bedecked in full armor of bronzed steel plate, sturdy and yet elegant, richly engraved with patterns of leaves, and vines, and flowers. A cape of thick burgundy broadcloth was clasped about her neck with a broach of diamonds and gold filigree, and she wore a skirt of the same burgundy cloth that came down to her knees, parting in the front to reveal fawn colored breeches and boots of rich brown leather. Atop her head she wore a golden helm through which he could only see her lips, her nose, her piercing blue eyes watching him. 

“Walk with me a moment?” Celeborn asked her quietly and Galadriel nodded, dismounting and pulling of her helmet, fastening it to her saddle. They walked side by side then, one in silver armor and the other in gold, the sun glinting off of it, making it shine, stepping over gently bubbling brooks and between tall mossy trees until they were far enough away from the soldiers that they could speak privately. 

But, knowing that their parting drew nigh, Celeborn found himself at a loss for words and so instead he tangled his hands in the short golden hair that now fell as far as Galadriel’s jaw, tilting her face up towards the light and towards him, bringing his lips to hers gently and she kissed him back. They lost themselves in one another for a moment and then, because the intimacy made the parting all the more bitter, they at last stepped apart and, hand in hand, began to wind their way through the dappled light of the forest.

“I wish you could come with me,” Galadriel said, voicing the desire that lay in both of their hearts.

“I am too powerful a figure,” he said. “It would be seen as an incursion by the Sindar. They would say that the prince of Doriath had usurped the throne, that I was ruling for Thingol by proxy, and you and Orodreth would be ignored. This is for the house of Finarfin to do, not the house of Elwë. It must be your doing and your doing alone, even as you have said.” Of course he knew that she knew that. Indeed, they had already discussed it more than once, but despite the treachery of politics, their hearths were loathe to be parted. Galadriel nodded. 

“Do not worry for me,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I am certain I shall prevail against them, especially if these reports of refugees escaping from Sauron to Nargothrond prove as true as we have heard.”

“I cannot help but worry for you,” Celeborn told her, “and not because I doubt what you have said, but because I love you.”

“I know,” Galadriel leaned her head against his shoulder and Celeborn seemed to take heart, laughing softly.

“Still,” he said, a playful light in his eyes, “I think, warrior princess, that Curufin and Celegorm have more reason to fear for their own safety than I have to fear for yours.”

“Am I so fearsome looking?” Galadriel asked him with a grin. 

“You are indeed,” Celeborn smiled with a wink, “mightiest of the Noldor.”

“And yet you laugh,” Galadriel grinned, scowling at him teasingly, “as though I were a child playing at war.”

“Only because I am your lover,” he told her, “and thus I find the sight of you all dressed for war to be rather endearing. I assure you that for others it will be quite intimidating.”

“I think most men would find the sight of their lover in armor to be off-putting,” Galadriel said with smile. 

“You know that I am not most men, Galadriel,” Celeborn said, coming to a stop in the shade of a tree, gazing up into its branches. 

“It is only for intimidation’s sake after all,” she said. “I am hardly a warrior.”

“You are a passable one,” Celeborn said, turning towards her once more. “I know. I’ve fought you.” Galadriel grinned. 

“Passable,” she whispered with a grin, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Would you prefer if I flatter you and say you are great?” Celeborn asked her cheekily and Galadriel shook her head.

“No,” she said, softly. They were only delaying the inevitable. The silence stretched between them as they watched a pair of yellow butterflies dancing in the breeze and then, after a while, Celeborn, never one to restrain his tongue when there was something that needed saying, spoke.

“I shall miss you,” he said, a look of longing in his emerald eyes as his gaze met hers and he reached out to run his hands through her golden hair. It was all the encouragement that she needed and she threw herself into his arms.

“And I you,” she said, doing her best to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. She would miss him, and greatly, would miss the warmth of his body beside hers in sleep, would miss his playful grin, his mischievous eyes, his odd sense of humor, the balm of his conversation. ‘Miss’ was not a suitable word; it was a completely inadequate descriptor of the pain she expected to feel at their separation. “I am sorry,” she said, “sorry about the wedding…”

“Galadriel,” Celeborn tilted her chin up so that she was looking into his eyes, her own filled with unshed tears, “do not dwell on it. I understand. This is what is best, best for you, for me, for our peoples, our families, for Doriath. Besides, if what we have heard of Finrod is true, then you must go into mourning anyway and will not be able to wed for this next decade. The time will come, and sooner than you think. When you return from Nargothrond we shall be wed.” Galadriel closed her eyes, swallowed the tears, and nodded.

“We should marry this instant,” she said. It was only half a joke and Celeborn laughed. 

“It would take us the entire afternoon to take our armor off and put it back on again,” he said. 

“We need not undress fully,” Galadriel said with a smirk and Celeborn laughed again, cupping her face in his hands.

“The first time we have each other I mean for us to take our time to truly enjoy ourselves,” he said, “and I also mean to have you completely bare as Illúvatar made us, without a wall of armor between us.” Galadriel bit her lip, grinning. But she recognized the humor for the farce that it was, a means to defer the pain of parting. “And it would, I think, only increase the burden of parting.” Celeborn said, speaking what she had been thinking. Galadriel took his hand in hers, rubbing it gently. 

“I know,” she said, shaking her head, and yet she could not help but note that this time he had made no reference to the need for a formal ceremony. 

“Then farewell my warrior lady,” Celeborn said with a smile.

“Will you not kiss me once more?” She asked him.

“Of course I mean to,” he said, drawing her into his embrace. 

“I do not know when I shall be able to return,” she said. “I must make sure that Orodreth sits firmly on the throne.

“I know,” Celeborn said, “and I shall be waiting eagerly for you whenever that time may come.”

Galadriel had turned back one last time as she and her guards wheeled their horses about, beginning their gallop across the guarded plain, and she had seen Celeborn standing there under the eaves of the trees like a spark of silver in the noon light, his hand raised in farewell.

*****

“Well this is certainly a surprise,” Celeborn mused with a grin, striding into the courtyard as he pulled a pair of leather gloves onto his hands, before he leaned up against a pillar, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was astonished when I got your message, half wondered if it was a joke really,” he chuckled. “I don’t recall that I have ever seen you with a sword.”

But Galathil did not return his brother’s lighthearted banter, indeed, he did not even scowl at him, but merely looked embarrassed, his cheeks coloring red. “I haven’t held a sword before,” he said quietly, resting his hand self-consciously upon the leather and steel hilt of the weapon that was strapped to his side. “I’ve never had need to.” He did not meet Celeborn’s eyes.

“You could have come to me yourself,” Celeborn said, his voice softening as he uncrossed his arms and stuffed his hands in his pockets, assuming a less intimidating posture. Something was clearly bothering Galathil, something he was ashamed of. “You didn’t need to send a message through a servant.”

“I thought you might rebuff me,” Galathil said, still refusing to meet his brother’s eyes, still fiddling idly with the hilt of the sword at his side. “I know you’re busy lately. And, well…I know that the soldiers who train with you are far more experienced that me. I thought you might send me to somebody else, somebody less… someone more accustomed to training beginners.”

“Galathil you’re my brother…” Celeborn began to protest but the younger prince interrupted him. 

“And you’re one of the best warriors! The best with an axe after Mablung! It is a waste of your time to train me!” Galathil blurted out and now he, defensively, was the one with his arms crossed over his chest. 

Celeborn was quiet for a moment and then he said, “I have never thought of you as a waste of time, brother, and I never will.” Galathil merely shrugged his shoulders, still embarrassed, looking down at his boots. “Why are you here?” Celeborn asked him and Galathil took a long time to answer.

“These are dangerous times,” he said at last, finally glancing up at his brother for a moment before glancing back down at his boots. “I no longer trust Uncle. I never thought I would see the day that he treated our cousin in such a way and yet that day has now come and gone. What dark days we must have entered for Lúthien to find more solace in wandering the forests than in her father’s house. And then after what Galadriel’s cousins have done to Finrod…what may happen if a Silmaril comes to Menegroth.” 

He raised his eyes to Celeborn’s once more, seeming to find some courage at last, and continued. “When Uncle threatened this kingdom with doom you and Galadriel alone opposed him while I stood by, mute, cowering like the weakling that I am. But I cannot afford to act that way anymore, for your sake, for Inwen’s sake, for Nimloth’s sake I need to learn to fight. The day may soon be coming where I must do so, where I must protect my family.”

“I hope this does not mean that you will set aside your dulcimer,” Celeborn said, “for now that Lúthien sings no longer and Dairon has departed, the people are in need of something to lighten their hearts just as surely as they need protection.” And he saw in his brother’s eyes that he had meant to give up his music but, hearing Celeborn’s words and his encouragement, Galathil took heart.

Looking up with renewed confidence he said, “I do not mean to put it aside. But I hope that if the time comes where I must protect rather than sing, I will not be found wanting.”

“With my training you will not find yourself in such a position,” Celeborn said authoritatively, as he used to instruct Galathil when they were children at play. “But you must swear that you shall practice as often as I tell you, and that you shall listen and pay close attention to what I mean to teach you.”

“Of course I will!” Galathil replied in response to his brother’s goading and Celeborn grinned, causing Galathil to do the same.

“Is it your sword?” Celeborn asked, gesturing to the weapon that hung at his brother’s side. 

“It is,” Galathil told him, glancing down at the weapon and tapping the hilt with his hand. “I don’t believe my aim to be good enough for the bow, nor my arm to be strong enough for an axe, so a sword it is, I thought.”

“A good choice for you I think,” Celeborn said with a nod. “Will you show it to me?” With a start of surprise Galathil reached down to draw the sword but Celeborn stepped forward, stilling his brother’s hand. “Always hold the scabbard when you draw,” he said. “Try again.” Galathil nodded diligently and took the scabbard in hand, drawing the weapon smoothly. “Very good,” Celeborn told him. “Well done.” Galathil grinned.

“This is a fine blade,” Celeborn said, examining it. “Who was the smith who made it?”

“Thalaron,” Galathil replied.

“A good choice,” Celeborn told him.

“He came highly recommended,” Galathil said and Celeborn nodded.

“His work is very fine. I hope you shall do justice to this weapon,” Celeborn said.

“I mean to,” Galathil told him.

“Very well then, sheathe your sword,” Celeborn told him and Galathil obeyed, albeit with a questioning look on his face.

“Will we not practice?” He asked.

“We will,” Celeborn said, “but not with blades. The first and most important aspect of combat lies not in the weapon, but in the feet of the one who wields it. First we must practice footwork.”

“Footwork?” Galathil exclaimed, sounding very put out. “Like a dancer?” He nearly scoffed at the idea.

“Fighting is a good deal more like dancing than you might think,” Celeborn told him, pleased to see that his brother’s spirit seemed to have been revived. “The way that you carry your weight and move your body will very much impact how effective your strike is or how quickly you can escape if you need to do so. What is more, it will determine which parts of your body are protected from the enemy and which are not. So come here.” He moved to one end of the courtyard and Galathil came to stand beside him. 

“Now put your right foot forward,” Celeborn said. “No, not so much,” he corrected Galathil’s stance. “And keep your weight on your left foot.” He moved to stand in front of Galathil. “Do you see,” he said, “if your weight is on your leading foot and you miss your strike you will tumble into me and it will be easy for me to kill you. But if your weight is on your back foot then you can still maintain distance between yourself and your opponent if you miss.” Galathil nodded.

“It is counterintuitive,” Galathil said, “for you would think you would want to be charging forward, but I can see the logic of it.” Celeborn nodded, affirming his brother’s observation.

“The parts of your body need to move in balance and harmony,” he said, “rather like music I suppose.” Galathil nodded. “Now,” Celeborn continued, coming to stand by his brother’s side once more, “we shall practice moving forward. Remember, weight on your back leg and, whatever you do, don’t lock your knees.”

*****

In had been many long years since last the sister of Finrod Felagund had stood at Nargothrond’s gates and she found now that her welcome was considerably less warm than it had been on a time. The guards that stood at the gates were Finrod’s men and yet they bristled at Galadriel’s approach, their spears at the ready.

“By order of the Lords Curufin and Celegorm none are to pass without permission,” the guards cried out. 

Galadriel removed her helmet so that they could see her face and know who she was and, having done so, she spoke in a commanding voice, saying; “who are you that you should refuse entrance to one who rides under the banner of Finarfin, King of the Noldor in Tirion, and of Finwë my forefather? Behold, I am Galadriel, the sister of Finrod Felagund to whom you swore your allegiance and I have come now to reclaim that allegiance for the house of Finarfin. Therefore do not stand before me and act as though you have the authority to deny my entrance into my brother’s house. Verily, I say unto you, that as the sister of Felagund I declare it treason to raise to me your weapons or to otherwise threaten my person with harm and malice. Get thee gone then, and repent of your treasonous acts and perhaps I shall be moved to mercy.”

Having so said, she spurred her horse forward and at first the guards pressed their spears against the animal’s breast but, in their own doubt and indecision they faltered and Galadriel passed through, followed by her own guards. “Will we not dismount, my lady?” One of them asked her and Galadriel glanced over at him. 

“I do not find that necessary,” she said and the guard grinned. 

The people of Nargothrond stared at them in shock as they passed and among them she saw some who were emaciated, who bore the marks of torture upon their skin and, more profoundly, in their eyes. Perceiving from what she was in their hearts that they were those who Lúthien had freed from Sauron’s cluthes, she beckoned them draw near her and tell their tal. “Tell me,” she said, “from whence you came and, in the memory of my brother, Finrod Felagund, son of Finarfin, I command you tell me of all that passed at Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”

She could see that some of these broken and shattered elves were Noldor and many of them were Sindar but at the sound of Finrod’s name she could see well that all of them bore him the most profound respect and honored him. They told her then the tale of Finrod’s duel with Sauron and how at last he had fallen, of Lúthien’s arrival and how she had cast Sauron out and laid bare the pits of misery, freeing them from their chains, of how Felagund had been laid to rest there upon a green hill, interred in the warm comfort of the earth. And Galadriel wept openly to hear of his death, even as those who told the tale wept in gratitude to Beren, and Finrod, and Lúthien for their freedom. 

“What has passed can not be undone,” she said then. “Yet still it may be that some justice may be worked here. Come with me now and let us cast out the sons of Fëanor even as Sauron was cast out and restore to the throne Orodreth, Finrod’s appointed and rightful heir. Let us honor his memory in this way and no longer allow those who plotted and schemed for his death and the death of Beren, for the imprisonment and rape of Lúthien to sit upon the throne of a king who was right and good.”

Then she turned to the citizens of Nargothrond and raised her voice, saying; “and those of you who have been so faithless, those of you who supported these murderers, who looked the other way while wrong was being done, who turned a blind eye to those who engineered the death of your rightful king, redeem yourselves now! You have heard the truth here from these who have been freed from slavery and bondage, the tale of all that has passed! Come with me and we shall put an end to the wrong that has been done!”

Having so said she turned and, as they continued on the way to the throne room, the crowd that followed them grew and grew until all of Nargothrond marched at Galadriel’s behest. At last they stood before the obsidian obelisks that barred the way to the throne room, the smooth stones shining as a black mirror and, the face that Galadriel saw reflected back at her was not her own, but Finrod’s. There she reined her horse to a halt before the guards crying, “I command you open these doors in the name of the House of Finarfin!” And the guards, knowing her face and witnessing her fury as well as the great crowd that she had gathered, threw open those doors.

Galadriel took from the standard bearer the banner of Finarfin’s house and Spurred her horse forward through that hall, coming to a stop before the throne of Nargothrond, and she raised the banner of her father high into the air, crying, “What is this I see here? Shall my brother’s house be thus dishonored? Is this a city of honor or a den of serpents?” 

Celegorm had been lounging on Finrod’s throne as she had entered, and Curufin sitting at his feet, sucking the pulp from figs and casting the skins to the floor so that they were surrounded in their own filth. But finding that they were suddenly in danger when they had presumed themselves so very safe, they had leapt up, speechless, at Galadriel’s entrance. And Orodreth, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forth into the light. 

“A woman presumes to command the sons of Fëanor, eldest son of Finwë and of his rightful queen, Míriel!” Curufin cried in fear and rage, the weakness of his words and the frightened pitch of his voice betraying his own lack of strength. “You presume to command me, you - a woman who breaks bread with the king of the dark elves, who has lain with one of the Moriquendi and thereby profaned the laws of Illúvatar!”

But Celegorm turned a fierce eye upon his brother and then turned to Galadriel, growling, “get thee gone, Nerwen, or else I shall take Lúthien to wife whether she consents or not! The sons of Fëanor are not to be commanded by a daughter of third-born Finarfin who sired children upon a Telerin woman!”

“Your deception has been laid clear to me!” Galadriel cried. “For Lúthien is not here, but has escaped your clutches. You denigrate me for being a daughter, rather than a son of Finarfin, you mock Indis as an illegitimate wife, and you belittle the might of my mother, daughter of Olwë, but let it be known to all here that while sons sat upon thrones they had stolen, partaking of luxuries that were not theirs by right, daughters have cast out the darkness and freed our people from slavery! I say unto you that Lúthien Tinúviel stood on the bridge of Sauron’s fortress and declared her power! Then by her hand and her hand alone were the walls and stones of that place cast down and turned to dust, its pits of darkness were laid bare to the light of the moon, and those who had been held in bondage were freed by her power and her hand! Here are those who saw this with their very eyes! Here are those who were freed!” And, so saying, she held out her hand to those witnesses who stood behind her. “So do not speak to me of the mightiness of the sons of Fëanor, for nigh 500 years you have not managed what the daughter of Elwë managed in the span of a moment!”

Then she turned, facing the people, and cried aloud, “take heart people of Nargothrond and repent of your wrongs! Cast out these vermin who schemed and hoped for the death of my brother, your true king, Finrod Felagund! Verily, I tell you that their treacherous plans have achieved their end, for Finrod perished in his battle against Sauron but still his memory lives on in this city and in her citizens! Let us do him honor by our deeds now! And let us restore Orodreth, son of Angrod and rightful appointed heir of Finrod to the throne!” At her words a great cheer rose up and the sons of Fëanor, perceiving clearly their danger and the hopelessness of their cause, fled that place and no more were they seen in Nargothrond’s halls or in the lands under her domain. But as Galadriel sat upon her horse in her brother’s hall amidst the cheers of the people and watched as Orodreth mounted the throne once more, she saw another step out from the shadows to gaze at her with awe: Celebrimbor.

*****

“Galadriel has taken Nargothrond and cast out the sons of Fëanor, even as she said that she would.” Celeborn looked up from the tree that he was tending, wiping his hands on the short, burlap apron that he wore to free them of soil, to find Thingol standing over him. “Orodreth has been returned to power.”

It used to be that the sound of his uncle’s voice had brought to Celeborn’s heart a feeling of joyful kinship, and by the words he had spoken Celeborn should rightfully have been glad at the news. And yet… just now the sound of the king’s voice, and he had thought of him as the king rather than his uncle this time, had been unwelcome; he had nearly recoiled at it, as though Thingol were a snake that meant to bite him, and news that he would have welcomed with joy from anyone else fell now on tired ears.

Celeborn clasped his hands before him him, schooling his features into polite compliance, and said, “It would have been a marvel to see, I am sure.” 

“I would imagine that your Galadriel was magnificent,” Thingol said, braving a small and insecure smile. Celeborn tried his best to return it for the sake of propriety but he imagined that his own smile must have looked rather forced.

“I know that she must have been,” he said and his uncle knelt in the dirt with him, touching the fresh yet fragile little branches of the sapling. 

“A plum tree?” Thingol said curiously. “I seem to remember you calling the cultivation of fruit trees ‘childish’ once upon a time.”

“Did I?” Celeborn asked, reaching up to scratch his short silver hair. The reminder of ages past, of happy times, only seemed to drive the knife of betrayal deeper into his heart, though he was sure that Thingol had meant to placate him. “That was a very childish thing of me to say.” Thingol’s mouth warped into an uneasy grin. “And what news have you of Lúthien?” Celeborn asked, wondering how long it would be before he could politely end this conversation. 

“Lúthien was not there,” Thingol said, his feigned sense of being at ease fading to give way to solemnity. “It seems that she had escaped before Galadriel arrived. But the death of Finrod has been confirmed, for there are many in Nargothrond who saw his body for themselves, having fled from Tol-in-Gaurhoth.” Celeborn bowed his head in silence for a moment. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from lashing out at Thingol, to remind him that he too had played a role in Finrod’s death. 

At last the prince managed to thrust his anger back down and asked, “and Beren? What has passed?” 

“Lúthien has cast out Sauron, destroyed his fortress, and laid bare his pits. Beren she rescued from Sauron’s clutches and many who had been imprisoned there for centuries she set free. But she and Beren fled to the north and have not been seen since. Thinking they must have gone to Angbad, I sent messengers to Maedhros and Maglor asking them to keep a keen eye out for any sign of her, but I rather fear that she may already be in Morgoth’s clutches. What I have already heard does not bode well. My informants in the northern parts of Neldoreth and Brethil have seen strange things, a great wolf heading south, running as if it has gone mad.”

“Is it rabid?” Celeborn asked, for that ailment was not particularly rare amongst animals of the forest.

“No. It seems to be possessed by some evil spirit almost,” the King said, “though what this could be I cannot rightfully say, and yet I feel it is some harbinger of doom. Already it has crossed the girdle.”

“Crossed the girdle?” Celeborn’s anger with his uncle was forgotten in the wake of those shocking words and, for a moment he found that he could not quite comprehend them. 

“I feel as though the coming of doom is upon me,” Thingol said then quietly, his eyes studying the earth. “And I cannot help but wish…” his voice faltered and fell, he sighed, “wish that I had lived my life a little differently. But it is too late now, I suppose, for such thoughts. I had so many…so many thousands of years and yet I had so little time…” his voice trailed off into silence.

“Galadriel has foreseen your death,” Celeborn said quietly, suspecting now that the king already knew this.

“As has Melian,” Thingol murmured. “Though she did not realize it until recently. But nothing more will she tell me and says only that the doom I have devised for myself must work now to its appointed end. And so…” Celeborn swallowed, his chest going tight, as if his own muscles were constricting his heart and lungs within his chest. There had been many reasons indeed for Thingol to come and speak to him but now he discerned yet another.

“If I am gone, and Lúthien is gone,” Thingol murmured, his eyes meeting Celeborn’s with some sort of trepidation, “then I do not believe that Melian will stay in Middle-earth.” Celeborn could feel his hands trembling and he sank his fingers into the earth, seeking purchase. 

“You are the crown prince, Celeborn,” Thingol said softly. “If Lúthien is dead,” his voice caught on those words and it took the king a moment to recover in which he sat in silence, trying to draw the strength to say the rest.

Celeborn stood, pulling off the gardening apron he wore and throwing it to the ground, stalking away as he raked his hands through his short silver hair, coming to a stop, his chest heaving, his mind pounding. He felt the foreign sensation of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he pressed his palms against them hard, trying to breathe more deeply. It seemed like he could not get enough air. Of course he had always known that this was a possibility. That was, after all, what it meant to be a crown prince but he had always believed the chance so remote that it was laughable. 

And yet, he could not pretend that he had not thought of it. After Galadriel’s visions he had been forced to admit to himself that such a thing was a distinct possibility now. But, hearing Thingol say it was an entirely different experience than having thought it for himself. Hearing Thingol say it made it real, so very real, too real.

“Will you?” Thingol asked, raising the eyes of a haunted man.

“I have no choice,” Celeborn said, his throat dry, turning back towards the king he had once loved. Thingol met his eyes and looked at him for a long time then. 

Presently the king spoke, saying, “there is a choice. The choice would be to leave, to flee, but the fact that you believe there to be no choice means that, though you may not wish to be a king, you are the king that these people need, the king they deserve…a better king than I have ever been or will ever be in the short time I have left on this earth.”

Thingol stood, facing his nephew. “Celeborn,” he said, “you are right to be angry with me and I do not hold it against you. But, whatever ill will stands between us still, I would have you know that, though you are the eldest of the princes, I could have chosen Galathil or Oropher as the crown prince but I did not and it was not only because of your age and the color of your hair. You have the heart of the king. The people trust you and they will follow you if you ask it of them. It seems there is no longer a single elf in this city with a full head of hair anymore. They follow me no longer. I have betrayed them and they know it. I had thousands of years, Celeborn, thousands and I doomed myself in the matter of a moment. But I could not see it, not until it was too late. What I have done I cannot undo.”

“I…” Celeborn was at a loss as to what to say. “You must know I do not want it.”

“There are many things in life that we do not want,” Thingol said sadly, “but they happen to us nonetheless.” Heaving a ponderous sigh he reached into the pocket of his robe and he paused then, hand in pocket, as if he was suddenly very unsure of what he had been about to do. But then he pulled out his hand at last and opened it to reveal a pair of golden rings studded with diamonds.

“Wedding bands,” Celeborn remarked, but he did not reach out to take them. The king nodded. “Why are you giving them to me?” 

“Melian and I had them made for you just after you were engaged,” Thingol said. “And, of course, we thought to give them to you in happy times, when there was still love between us. But perhaps things shall never be that way again and so…so I would like you to have them, not as some futile effort at making amends for the things I have done, but because after all I have done, all I have asked of you, you deserve them.” 

Celeborn reached out, pausing for a brief moment, and then took the rings looking at them glimmering in the palm of his hand, but he could not see any beauty in them, though they were surely beautiful, only cold, hard metal and the reflection of dreams that were broken and unfulfilled. He nodded a small bow and put them in the pocket of his breeches. His heart felt nearly as hard as those rings and he wished Galadriel were here to soften it with her compassion and her mercy. She was a far kinder person than he and he suddenly envied her ability to forgive so easily.

“If the time comes,” Thingol said, he paused, looking very sad for a moment, “it would be best for you to marry Galadriel immediately, without ceremony or formalities. If she is your queen then perhaps the Fëanorians will not dare molest Doriath and perhaps…she could not maintain the girdle…she is too young, too weak… but she is powerful and she might be able to buy more time against Morgoth until you could evacuate the city, take the people east over the mountains where you might find safety with the Nandorin elves. I have heard of a kingdom far to the east; Lindórinand is its name, ruled by one called Malgalad.”

Celeborn nodded. Truth be told he felt rather numb, as if it was all far too much to take in, as if this were all some sort of macabre dream from which he would wake any moment. He raised his eyes to Thingol’s once more, making to speak, but they were interrupted by footsteps, running footsteps, and presently Galathil burst into the gardens.

“Come quick!” He cried, foregoing the usual formalities of his office, standing there on trembling legs, completely out of breath. “Lúthien and Beren, they have returned!” 

Minutes later they were in the throne room, which had been thrown into veritable pandemonium, and Celeborn could sense a change in Thingol, for where there had been only moments earlier a resignation to fate and a profound sadness, the king now seemed to quiver with some manic and impatient energy. Thus it was not with great joy and affection that he sat waiting for his long-lost daughter, but with all the unease of a rabbit being pursued by hounds. And, in his heart, Celeborn worried, for he could not discern what Thingol meant to do and darker even than the king’s gaze bode the absence of the queen.

“She would not answer the summons,” Galathil said softly, standing at his brother’s side, having understood his thoughts. But there was no more to say, for in that moment there came now through the hall Lúthien, her hand in Beren’s and following behind them a great hound the likes of which none of them had ever before seen. And Celeborn stared in wonder upon his cousin, for she appeared to him to have grown in power since last he had seen her, or otherwise she had cast off whatever cloak it was that had made her seem so much like them, and now she looked almost as Melian did in her moments of power. 

Beren too was changed and it seemed that his goodness was not gone, nor his humility, but there was some darkness in his eyes now, as if he were haunted by many things, and it seemed that his mortality sat heavy upon his shoulders and a great sadness filled his heart. Having reached the dais they stopped there, neither saying a word. 

Thingol was trembling and this time, Celeborn knew, it was not from rage, but because his entire body was bent upon restraining the tears that threatened to flow. It was Beren who relieved him of the burden of speaking, kneeling before Thingol and saying, “I have returned, Majesty, even as I said that I would,” his voice sounded worn and tired and he raised his haggard head to meet Thingol’s eyes. “I beg you fulfill your oath, for the sake of what we have endured.”

Thingol seemed yet unable to speak but at last he managed to squeeze the words from a throat that was too tight, “and what of your quest and of your vow?” His voice was a whisper of pain, barely audible.

“It is fulfilled,” Beren said gently. “Even now a Silmaril is in my hand.”

Thingol seemed to grow nervous and then he choked out, “then show it to me!” 

Beren put forth his left hand, opening the fingers slowly, but it was empty. Then, from beneath his cloak, he drew his right hand, where only a stump remained. “I am empty-handed,” he said. While Celeborn, and Galathil, and the rest of the court stared on in amazement, Thingol dropped his head and his shoulders shook as he wept silently into his hands. At last he raised his head again and bade Beren and Lúthien sit beside him and tell the tale in full. 

They told of everything that had passed, of how Lúthien had been captured by Celegorm and Curufin, how Huan had turned against his master and aided Lúthien, how Finrod had been killed by the wolves. The spoke of the mighty deeds they had done: casting Sauron out of his fortress. They told of the treachery of Celegorm and Curufin as they had sought to detain them and abduct Lúthien, how Curufin had aimed his arrow at Lúthien and hit Beren instead, how Huan had once more risen to their aid. Lastly they spoke of all that had passed at Angbad, how Morgoth had stripped them bare of their disguises but Lúthien had lured him to sleep with her song and dance, how they had cut the Silmaril from the dark lord’s crown but been betrayed by the treacherous dagger, Angrist, and then they told the tale of how Carcharoth had awaited them at the gates to prevent their escape and bitten off Beren’s hand when he brandished the Silmaril. 

Then, at last, Thingol looked upon Beren with love and respect and he perceived that the doom of Beren and Lúthien could not be withstood by any power of the world. So thinking, he said, “what foul and traitorous beast shall hold within his greedy belly that which my son and my daughter have suffered for and fought so hard to gain. I shall ready a hunting part and we shall slay this Carcharoth and take back what Beren and Lúthien by their bravery and love endured so many trials to earn, not least of all that unfairness of what I myself imposed upon them. Never again shall this wolf harm any of my people or any that I love. Let us end his reign of terror in Doriath.”

“But first,” he said, looking down upon Beren and Lúthien now with sympathy, “I will fulfill, Beren, the oath that I made to you. Stand before my throne now, take Lúthien’s hand in yours, and you shall be married this very day before my court.”

So Beren and Lúthien descended the dais, with Thingol following and the king stood by Lúthien’s side but then the princess said, her eyes full of worry. “Who shall stand for Beren?”

“I shall,” Celeborn said, stepping forward, “if he shall have me then I shall stand as kin to him according to the oath that Finrod made, for Felagund was my friend and very dear to me so I would do this thing in his honor if Beren permits.”

“You are, as ever, too kind,” Beren said, bowing his head, and Celeborn stepped forward to place his hand on the man’s shoulder. It was strange, he thought, and almost startling to touch a human. They did not feel the same as elves, just as Melian’s hand did not feel the same as Thingol’s. Beren felt the way that an annual flower did or a tree: temporary, short, fleeting. There was some sense of finality to him. 

“Will my mother not come?” Lúthien asked, looking distressed, and Thingol shook his head silently. “And Galadriel?” She asked.

“In Nargothrond,” Celeborn replied quietly. Lúthien nodded, glancing towards her cousin, and Celeborn saw then in her eyes that this wedding was only a formality, but that the marriage had already taken place. 

“Let us continue then,” Lúthien said quietly, though she sounded sorely disappointed.

And Thingol began, saying, “We are gathered here today to welcome the marriage of Beren son of Barahir of the House of Bëor to Lúthien, crown princess of Doriath, Princess of the Sindar, and Princess of all Beleriand, daughter of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, King of the Sindar, and High King of Beleriand and of his wife and queen Melian of the Maiar.”

“Arafain Celeborn of the Houses of Elwë and Elmo,” Thingol said solemnly, “do you give Beren son of Barahir to Lúthien of your own free consent and with your blessing and the blessings of the House of Bëor?”

“I do,” Celeborn said. “Thingol, King of Doriath, do you give your daughter, Lúthien, to Beren of your own free consent and with the blessings of the House of Elwë?”

“I do,” Thingol said and then both he and Celeborn stepped back as Beren and Lúthien stepped forward.

“Lúthien,” said Beren, taking her hands in his own, “do you give yourself to me of your own free consent?” He asked and, at last, a smile blossomed on Lúthien’s face like the spring and, looking upon her, Beren could do naught but smile himself.

“I do,” Lúthien said, “Beren, I marry you. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar I marry you.” And then she said, “Beren, do you give yourself to me of your own free consent?”

“I do,” Beren said, “Lúthien, I marry you. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar I marry you.” But now they seemed at a loss, though they were happy, for this was the part where rings were customarily exchanged but there were no rings, only…Celeborn recalled that he did, in fact, happen to have two marriage bands in his pocket and, almost stunned at how fortuitous a thing that was, he removed them and held them out to Lúthien.

“No!” She said, shaking her raven head, her eyes full of shock. “No, Celeborn I couldn’t. Those are doubtlessly meant for you and Galadriel.”

“They were a gift to me, Lúthien, and now I wish to give them to you,” Celeborn told his cousin and, as if she hardly dared to believe it, Lúthien embraced him tightly for a moment and then reached out, taking the rings from him and she and Beren put them on each other’s fingers. Thingol gave Celeborn an almost imperceptible nod, thankful for what he had done.

Then Thingol stepped forward once more and said, “May the blessings of both houses and of Eru Ilúvatar, the One, the Father of all, the Creator of Ea, Lord of all Arda, who set up the firmament without pillars in its stead, and who stretched out the world from one horizon to the next and grace, and prayer-blessing be upon the Valar, powers of the world, and upon the Maiar and their companion train. Prayer and Blessings enduring and grace which unto the day of doom shall remain. Eru Ilúvatar! O Thou of heavens and earth sovereign!” With that the blessing was complete.

*****

It was arranged that the hunting of Carcharoth should begin in two days time and so, when the chill spring sun began to climb into the sky, the hunting party assembled there before the gates of the city. The breath of the horses was hot in the chilly air and the shadows were long in the morning sun. The atmosphere was rather rambunctious, as it always was before a hunt, with hounds baying and hunters laughing, and the smell of sausages and other breakfast items being cooked over a few small fires made Celeborn’s mouth water.

But he did not relish the thought of this hunt, for he despised entirely this business of the Silmaril, and yet he knew without a doubt that they must slay Carcharoth and end his reign of terror within the girdle. He had donned his sturdiest hunting clothes and armor and prepared his heavy bow and a quiver full of arrows, his knives were strapped at his waist and black eagle feathers were bound to the small top knot he had managed to tie his gradually lengthening silver hair into. He shifted in his saddle and the golden eagle perched upon his shoulder fluttered her wings, seeking to regain her balance. 

He sighed. “Want one?” Mablung had ridden up beside him on a sturdy black stallion and was brandishing a hissing sausage on a stick at him while he scarfed down a second one. 

“If you’re offering,” Celeborn said with a grin, reaching out to take what he was being offered. It was too hot but he didn’t mind because it was so delicious. 

“I’m your friend. I knew you would want one,” Mablung said with a laugh.

“I had just been thinking eating one,” Celeborn said through a mouthful of sausage.

“You know, I’ve been thinking, Celeborn,” Mablung said, raising an eyebrow in a speculative manner. “Now might be the perfect opportunity for you to try my hairstyle. It is quite popular amongst the ladies.” He gestured to the thick, long, black ponytail that hung down his back and the wild stand of hair that stood down the center of his head, the sides of which were shaved and painted in runes with hues of black and red. 

“I already have a lady,” Celeborn said with a laugh. 

“Ah yes, of course,” Mablung replied. “But what I meant was that perhaps if you would adopt such a stylish fashion, Galadriel might become, shall we say, ‘intrigued.’”

“I assure you, Mablung,” Celeborn said, “I have no trouble ‘intriguing’ Galadriel.”

“What a pity,” Mablung said with a broad and mischievous smile, “I had planned to steal her away from you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Celeborn shot back with a grin. “Besides, Galadriel rather fancies my hair long so I do not think it would do to shave any of it off again.”

“Ah,” Mablung winked, “she likes those long silver locks of yours does she Celeborn? I never thought I would meet anyone as conceited about their hair as you until I met Galadriel so it seems you are suited for each other. I suppose I shall just have to find someone else!”

“I am sure that you will find many other someone elses,” Celeborn replied.

“Are you sure you are alright though?” Mablung asked.

“What?” Celeborn asked, surprised by the unexpected question.

“You seemed rather lost in your own mind before I spoke to you,” Beleg said.

“Oh,” Celeborn shook his head, “I…I just have a bad feeling about this is all. Nothing in particular…just…something.”

“Galadriel is rubbing off on you after all,” Mablung said with a laugh. “But look, they are making ready to leave! Let us go.” 

He and Mablung followed behind the rest of the party, made up of Thingol, Beleg, Beren, Huan, and many other hunters and hounds beside. And, before they entered the forest they turned back one last time to see Lúthien standing there before the gates, her hand raised in farewell. 

But Celeborn could hardly keep his focus on the hunt itself and, instead, his mind wandered to the hurried letter he had scribbled to Galadriel the past evening, telling her of all of the events that had taken place in the past two days. After purging himself of the thoughts and putting them to paper, he had wondered whether or not he ought to send it. After all, she must be busy in Nargothrond and he worried that news of the Silmaril might distract her and cause her a good deal of concern. Worse, he had wondered if it might bring on the terrible visions again and at a time when she was alone, without his aid. Nevertheless, he had at last sent it with a hawk early this morning, having reasoned that Galadriel’s right to the truth was more important than his desire to shield her from harm. After all, she was a grown woman and, as he knew very well, perfectly capable of dealing with the worst sort of news on her own.

By mid morning there was still no sign of the great wolf and Mablung rode forward to speak to Beleg while Beren fell back to ride at Celeborn’s side. And Celeborn found himself exceedingly glad for Beren’s conversation, for it kept his mind away from his worries over Galadriel. 

“I must thank you,” Beren said to the prince, “for all you have done. And I wish that your lady were here so that I might speak to her as well. I do not mean only the rings, though they were a generous gift and I am exceedingly grateful for them, but I mean how you stood against the king’s rash decision, as Lúthien told me you had, and how you and Galadriel both did your utmost to persuade him to recall Felagund and I and to repent of his decision.”

“I only wish that there was more that I could have done,” Celeborn said to him. “For the king could have prevented Finrod’s death and indeed, there were many things that could have been prevented if only he could have been persuaded to change his mind.”

“I have tried in my heart to forgive him, many times,” Beren said, “and I think I have nearly managed it for Lúthien’s sake but still the thought that so much unnecessary suffering was caused, that Finrod’s death might have been prevented, that dark days have come to Doriath gnaws at my heart like a dog at a bone.”

“You are not alone in your thoughts,” Celeborn confided in the man. “The same misgivings trouble my heart.”

“Ah!” Beren said and a slow smile worked its way across his face, “to have such power of forgiveness as Lúthien has is beyond us it seems.”

“I was only thinking that same thing about Galadriel the other day,” Celeborn said with a smile.

“Were you now?” Beren turned towards the Sinda with a grin. “I did like your Galadriel from the start. She is a wonderful person!”

“She might be surprised to hear you say so!” Celeborn said with a laugh. “For the sins of her past still weigh upon her mind, though in recent years she is more forgiving of herself and that, perhaps, is where her compassion for others stems from. I often find myself thinking what a very hard man I can be at times, and so unwilling and slow to forgive a wrong or a grudge, but Galadriel,” he shook his head with a smile, “forgiveness seems to come naturally to her nowadays. A product, perhaps of the effort she puts into understanding the minds of others. She judges them with compassion and I am left wondering what on earth I have done to deserve such a woman.”

“A question I often ask myself,” Beren said with a smile. “When I am around Lúthien I feel renewed, as though, well, as though all the troubles of my past have been lifted away and I am washed clean, a new man. ” Celeborn knew what he meant, for just as Galadriel had confided in him so recently that it was for his hope that she first loved him, so he had thought the same thing upon first seeing her. Out of the darkness and drudgery of the endless grinding away at Morgoth and his fell beasts there had emerged from the forest a creature so strange, and new, and unlike anyone else he had ever seen, still filled with the light and hope of the two trees and of Valinor despite all of her trials.

“I do not believe that I have ever had the chance to tell you,” he said to Beren, “but I am very happy that my cousin has found you and you her. For, seeing the love that the two of you share, I cannot help but be reminded of the love that I share with Galadriel, and in spite of all of the troubles that we have faced, I do truly believe that it has been worth all of it and I would wish everyone to have such happiness.”

“Once again, Celeborn of Doriath,” Beren said, “you do me far too much honor with your kind words.”

“Considering the love you bear my cousin, I do not do you enough honor,” Celeborn said and Beren smiled.

“Then,” the man said, “I fully expect that you invite me to your wedding. Do that and I shall consider us even.”

“You may rest assured that I shall,” Celeborn replied with a laugh. But just then, the hounds began baying and Huan went running off with a mighty leap, like an arrow shot from a bow, the horses and riders following behind him at a brisk pace and they knew by Huan’s speed and fierceness that this was indeed the scent of Carcharoth that he had caught.

Celeborn hung back, riding at the rear, for the right of the kill belonged to Thingol who had requested the Silmaril and to Beren who had claimed it from Morgoth, but he kept himself aware, particularly of the dark feelings that seemed to be growing stronger and stronger with each fall of his horse’s hooves, for a hunt was a dangerous game even when pursuing the most docile of deer and this one was made all the more dangerous by the villainy and might of the creature they tracked now.

Still he could not see the great wolf, but they were heading to the north, following the course of the river now after having gone east all morning and Celeborn grew ill at ease, for he knew these woods well and knew that they were among the densest and darkest in all of Doriath, concealing many places where Carcharoth might easily hide and ambush the hunting party.

His horse was eager to run and he gave him a bit more rein, listening to the rushing of the river and he could tell by the sound of it that they were drawing near that place where the Esgalduin fell over steep falls to the treacherous rocks below. And then, all in an instant, they burst forth into a small valley and Huan stopped, sniffing at the ground while the horses milled about, their riders looking confused. 

“He has lost the scent,” Beleg, who sat at Celeborn’s side now, murmured, glancing over at the prince and Celeborn nodded.

“Something bodes ill,” Celeborn voiced his concern and Beleg nodded, his quick eyes keen and nervous.

“I have had a bad feeling about this all morning,” Beleg confided in his friend and they exchanged a glance of understanding. Celeborn looked up but the canopy of the forest here was so thick that it shut out all light and, though it was now nearly noon, the valley itself seemed to have been plunged into nightfall. Celeborn stilled himself, listening to the voices of the trees on the wind, trees that grew up on crooked and warped trunks, like great gnarled fingers sprouting out of the earth, draped in thick and suffocating blankets of moss; they seemed oddly malevolent, as though the forest itself wished them ill.

“I could have sworn that I saw him drinking from the falls!” They heard Thingol cry in frustration.

“I have a very bad feeling about this,” Celeborn said, his heart quaking within his chest. “The forest feels almost evil in this place.” He and Beleg again exchanged nervous glances. Beren had moved to the king’s side, speaking to him in hushed tones as Huan, nose flush to the ground, approached a thicket, sniffing about it curiously. 

Suddenly the hound of Valinor began baying loudly, charging into the thicket with ferocity, snapping and howling all the way and then, like some great shadow, a monstrous wolf as big as a bear, with claws and teeth that glinted even in the dark and eyes that burned fierce with malice leapt forth, high over Huan’s head, falling like a meteor towards Thingol.

“UNCLE!” Celeborn shouted, his heart torn with fear, slamming his spurs into his horse’s side, but he was too far away; it was useless. And yet, as the great wolf, heavy as a mountain, bore down upon the king, Beren leapt before him, his spear outstretched in firm and untrembling hands, but, landing like an earthquake, Carcharoth swept the spear aside and opened his gaping maw lined with razor-sharp teeth, his entire mouth closing about Beren’s chest and the man cried out in great pain as the wolf shook him to and fro. But Huan had heard his cry and burst out of the thicket, crashing into the wolf so that Beren was thrown free and they fell together, fighting fiercely in a fury of fangs. 

Huan had Carcharoth by the neck and threw him bodily into the rocks at the top of the falls but the wolf was stronger than any other and he rose again, howling, and in his howl it seemed that all of Morgoth’s hatred and wickedness had been made manifest. Then Carcharoth tore at Huan’s flesh with his terrible teeth until blood poured forth from the hound’s wounds like a river. Yet Huan fought with the strength of Oromë and the wrath of the Valar, his teeth as last finding purchase once more in Carcharoth’s neck and he tore at the wolf with such savagery that at last the beast fell down, trembling, and then lay still in death before Huan collapsed atop him, whining and whimpering pitifully.

And by their side knelt Thingol, having given no heed to the great battle, for his mind and heart were bent entirely upon Beren, who lay gravely wounded, and Celeborn could see the king’s lips moving silently in prayers of healing and pleas of mercy. Then Huan made an attempt to rise but, too badly wounded to do so, at last crawled the short distance from where he had fallen to where Beren lay, making a valiant effort to wag his tail. Having reached Beren at last, the man lay his hand upon the dog’s head and the hound began to lick his face as if he were a pup, as if that could heal him but the strength gradually began to ebb from his body even as his blood poured out upon the ground. Then he lay his head down at Beren’s side, whining pitifully once more and before the last, Celeborn could have sworn that he heard the dog whisper ‘farewell’ before his eyes closed and his tail stopped wagging, falling still to never move again.

Beleg, Mablung, and Celeborn had hastened to Thingol’s side and, with the efficiency of anger, Mablung took his knife from its sheath and plunged it into Carcharoth’s stinking belly, ripping it wide open. The wolf’s innards burst out, black and charred as if they had been scorched with fire, and there, in the torn open belly of the wolf shone a blazing light, a light so bright that Celeborn had to turn his eyes aside for a moment, shielding them, and he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that this was indeed a Silmaril and perceived the might of the jewel in all its glory.

When at last he found that he could look again, he turned his eyes upon the stone with wonder, watching as Mablung reached for it and, at the touch of his hand, Beren’s severed hand that still clasped the jewel turned to dust and was borne away by the wind. Mablung then took up the jewel, but it seemed to have some great weight, for the warden cried out in alarm as his hand fell to the earth as if he bore in it the entire world. But he rose again, taking the jewel, his face lit with fear of the thing, and its brilliant light lit that dark valley, banishing the shadows as if the sun itself had come down to wander amongst them there, and placed it in Beren’s hand whereupon Beren held it aloft, handing it to Thingol and, his breathing grown shallow, struggled to speak, saying, “now is the Quest achieved and my doom full-wrought.” Then he collapsed back into the earth’s embrace, his eyes falling shut, and he moved no longer.


	32. Heart of Darkness

  
**Heart of Darkness**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 32nd Chapter

*****

"I think it had whispered to him  
things about himself which he did not know,  
things of which he had no conception  
till he took counsel with this great solitude –  
and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating.  
It echoed loudly within him  
because he was hollow at the core.”

_\- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness_

*****

Author’s note: Hey guys, thank you so much for all of your support. I am really sorry you had to wait so long for the chapter and I hope that it proves worth the wait. I’m so excited to share it with all of you!

Character profile: Galadriel!

For some reason, I have always found Galadriel to be the easiest character for me to write and she was the first character that I started to work on. I did plan a lot of her development but she honestly took on a life of her own after a while.  
I’ve read a lot of fics where Galadriel is this really perfect sort of person who has no flaws and is all knowing and always in the right and I don’t have anything against that. I think that is also an interesting angle to work from but it wasn’t really what I wanted to go for in this story or in my work in general. I think I may have said this before but I always have found it really strange that Tolkien sometimes gets criticized for being “black and white.” I’m not really sure how someone could read Tolkien’s works and get this impression. 

For me, at least, there is so much gray space in his books and though we do see Sauron as wholly bad, there aren’t really any characters who are wholly good, from the sympathy we sometimes feel for the Fëanorians even though they commit 3 genocides, to the way the ring begins to corrupt Frodo, to Boromir’s temptation and death, to Galadriel’s decision to not take the ring, to Thingol’s continual fluctuation between protagonist and antagonist, to Celeborn’s initial anger at the fellowship, we see at least a shade of darkness in so many of Tolkien’s characters and I think that is what makes them really admirable and memorable characters. That is what enables us to relate to them, what makes them real. 

Galadriel especially stood out to me as really a grey character and a very dynamic character, which is probably why I loved her from the first time I read the books. She goes through so much in the Silmarillion and makes so many mistakes and yet in Fellowship she finally makes the right choice even though it is difficult for her. So that is really the Galadriel that I wanted to show, a really dynamic, evolving, complicated character because that is what I believe Tolkien intended her to be and that is what makes her so amazing. Obviously, part of this has to do with how my story is structured too. Since it is so long and there will be sequels I can’t write her as fully evolved right at the start or that would be really boring for both you and me.

A big thing I do with her to achieve this effect where she is always learning and growing is that I really play with the idea of subjective perception with her. I do this with all of the characters to an extent, because it is a mystery after all, but definitely the most with her. So a lot of the time she thinks or feels a certain way about something because she doesn’t have all of the information that the other characters do. But, once she gains access to that information either because they tell her or she figures it out on her own, she often changes or adapts her perspective. She also, especially if you look at the places where she is remembering something someone said to her, has kind of a selective and sometimes faulty memory. I hardly ever write her memory of something as matching up exactly to what actually happened. This allows me to illustrate her biases and her occasionally selective memory, which I think gives her a lot of depth as a character (I hope).

Ok, another big thing to do with Galadriel is that I didn’t intentionally write this story as a feminist narrative but I really think it developed one and I think that is in big part to Galadriel. She always struck me as this very independent person in Tolkien’s works the way he talks about how in Aman she would do sports with the men and was the only female leader of the Noldorin rebellion and I really wanted to illustrate that. Then the more I started writing and developing Melian, Lúthien, Paniel, Venessiel, Bainwen, etc. I started thinking about how so many of the issues the characters were facing are issues that we face as women and I thought it was really important to show those issues as truly as I was able. 

Especially towards the middle of the story I started thinking that it was impossible to write this story without weaving my own life experiences into it because I think as a writer you have to write what you know and what I know is the experience of being a woman. So it became really important to me to make all the things women experience come to life: the feeling suppressed, finding out who you are, learning what you want, what you don’t, what you like, what you don’t, learning what other people think of you, how they treat you, how to get what you want, learning to fail and keep going, having limits forced on you and fighting those, reclaiming sex on your own terms for yourself, dealing with people who refuse to acknowledge your personhood, etc. Honestly, reading Tolkien, considering the journey that Galadriel had over thousands of years, she must have experienced all of that and I really wanted to show it.

I think her relationship with Celeborn plays a huge role in this aspect too. I wanted him to be a kind of awakening for her in a lot of ways: physical, sexual, emotional, developmental, etc. When I was thinking about their relationship in the books I was thinking that Celeborn obviously comes off as a strong character and it takes a really strong guy to be with a really strong woman. He even listens to Galadriel’s advice, unlike how Thingol refuses to listen to Melian, and changes his mind when he thinks she is right. I could never see Galadriel as happy with anything less than someone who was as strong as her. And I think they inspire each other’s strength. Essentially, Celeborn is the catalyst for Galadriel’s development. She sees this from the start, even though their initial relationship isn’t really healthy, that there is huge potential for them and I think she realizes that quickly when she is first getting to know him, that Celeborn is definitely who and what she wants, but she wasn’t in a place as a person where she was able to actualize that yet. She wants to grow and she knows that if she is with him she can grow in the way she wants. Unfortunately, she screwed that up big time.

But Celeborn really felt that too and I think he knew, deep down, that she wasn’t ready yet, that she couldn’t really give him what he wanted and needed out of the relationship, which was honesty and trust, so things didn’t work out but he still really believed in her, which is what I think made the breakup so hard and excruciatingly painful for him more than her, because he knew there was all that potential there and she had just thrown it all away and there was nothing he could do to stop her from ruining it. 

So I think it was really important, and this is why I took so long getting them back together, that when they went back into the relationship a second time they both went in with eyes wide open, completely sure of what they were getting into and completely committed to the relationship and to making it work. Celeborn had to learn to trust her again (telling her about the bond he had made with her was that moment where he really loves her again because it took complete and total trust in her for him to be able to tell her that) and she had to make herself worthy of trust to fix things (which she does when she puts her own pride aside for the happiness of others when Saeros throws the wine on her). She never would have been able to do that the first time she was in Doriath. I think that is what really characterizes their second relationship is that trust, openness, honesty, and commitment that wasn’t there the first time. (And it is what is going to make their “marriage” frickin hot and amazing)  
I also thought it was interesting in Tolkien’s books that Sindarin women can inherit but Noldorin women can’t and that spoke to a cultural difference in my opinion. So I wanted to show Celeborn, as a Sinda, kind of having a different experience of women than a lot of the male Noldorin characters, although a lot of the male Noldo like Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Finarfin (though we won’t meet him until Chapter 40…) are also pro feminist I think. I wanted to show Celeborn as someone who was raised by strong women like Melian and raised alongside strong women like Lúthien, who fought alongside female soldiers and was just generally, as a Sinda who lived in Middle-earth, used to elf women doing all the same things that elf men do. I thought that is really the kind of guy that Galadriel would like to be with.  
Galadriel also takes a lot after Eärwen, who you will be seeing in chapter 40…

Whew! So Galadriel is awesome and I love her! If you have any more questions about her ask me in a review or shoot me a PM and I will be happy to answer. Enjoy the chapter!

*****

Beren had been barely living when they had laid him upon the makeshift bier beside Huan’s cold body, covering them both with white niphredil blossoms whose gentle sweet scent rose up into the air from petals that had been inadvertently crushed by the trembling of the hands that had plucked them. The man’s life was ebbing away like the tide and now that they approached Doriath it seemed nearly spent.

That stretcher that bore him was carried by the king himself, and by Beleg and Mablung, and Celeborn of Doriath, and these four who were warriors had seen death often enough, smelt its stench so many times that they knew that even now it trudged forward in its slow and steady pace towards them as Beren’s breath grew ragged, slow, like the last faint ray of sunlight flickering to die before the onset of night. It had taken the rest of the day to return on foot and the hunting party was solemn beneath the dusky sky stained with stars and the inky beginning of evening. 

In the distance the lamps at the entrance to Menegroth were glowing, beckoning them forward now across the meadow and there at the gates to the city, her face dark with knowing, stood Lúthien alone. 

“Put…put me down…please,” they heard Beren gasp, his voice a mere whisper, a strange rasping, croaking, wheezing noise accompanying his words as he reached up, his fingers brushing weakly at Celeborn’s arm, “I am spent.” Celeborn looked down and saw the man’s hand fall back to his chest and then Beren swallowed hard, taking a deep breath with some difficulty as they carefully lowered him to the ground, there amongst the soft grasses of Doriath beneath the boughs of Hírilorn. They saw indeed that he could go no further, could endure no longer and he gave them a weak smile, grateful that they had understood and done as he bid. 

Lúthien was coming towards them now, torchbearers walking at her side, and Celeborn would have expected to see her weeping in her sorrow, cursing the Valar themselves, for had it been Galadriel upon that bier he would have torn up the very foundations of the earth in his pain and anger. But Lúthien was quiet, said nothing, and the only sound that filled the dawning of night was the hem of her white gown trailing over the niphredil and clover. 

She knelt down by her beloved, her delicate hands going to his face, stained with his own blood, and, closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead to his for a moment, kissed his brow, and then drew back just enough so that she could see his eyes as she embraced him. The crimson of his blood covered her now, staining her snow-white gown incarnadine but she did not mind and only smiled at Beren, her eyes filled with love and affection as, with gentle fingers, she pushed his hair back from his face.

Her husband tried futilely to raise his hand so that he might touch her one last time but his hand trembled, then faltered, and fell back to his chest for he had not the strength. And so Lúthien reached down, taking his hand in hers and raising it to her face, “I came back to you,” he gasped, his eyes hopeful, smiling, an action that seemed to wrench what remaining strength he had from his body. “I wish I could have loved you…for just a little longer…”

“I know, my love,” Lúthien said, looking at him lovingly, smiling. “And I will come back to you. Wait for me there, beyond the western sea,” she whispered and Beren looked at her for a moment with eyes that glistened with tears of joy and then, in the next instant, in a change that was nearly imperceptible, the light ebbed slowly from his eyes until it was gone and they grew dark, and cold, and motionless, staring ahead, seeing nothing. 

Lúthien laid his already cooling hand back upon his chest, her own hands trembling, the tears falling silently from her eyes now like spring rain to land upon his ruined tunic where they pooled in the folds of the bloodied fabric like drops of morning dew. She was overwhelmed by the immensity of her grief. Celeborn felt his throat grow tight and he drew a shuddering breath, for now he understood how she had found the strength to smile at her husband in his final moments: she had wanted the last thing he saw in life to be happiness and kindness, not grief. 

Celeborn felt tears quicken in his own eyes as, gently, stained in the blood of her beloved, Lúthien lay down by Beren’s side, her dark hair spread out across the clover and white niphredil like a ribbon of midnight, her hands clasping his, her eyes closed, her head pressed against Beren’s. Like a flower she looked, like a blossom of white that has been suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the verdant grass amidst the song of the birds and the babbling of brooks, perfect incandescent beauty there in the sacred and enchanted hollow of springtime.

Then she dimmed, slowly, subtly, like the silver fading of the moon in the coming of dawn and grew still, the salt of her tears and the blood of her beloved grown dry on a body that moved no longer. Celeborn felt fear lance through his heart and he stepped forward, unable to comprehend all of this, to kneel at his cousin’s side, reaching for her hand, “Lúthien?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. Her hand was cold as ice, devoid of life.

“Lu?” He asked, refusing to believe it, his breath catching in his throat. “Cousin?” He squeezed her hand, rubbed it with his own as though that might somehow manage to put life back into her. “Lu? Lúthien?” It seemed so impossible to believe and yet all around them the others seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. It seemed as if his entire body was going numb with the realization.

Wordlessly, Thingol rushed forward, pushing Celeborn aside, gathering his daughter into his arms. He said nothing, but the sounds that escaped him were nothing like Celeborn had ever heard any creature make before and the prince gradually became aware that he was weeping too, that the tears were coursing down his face now like a river so that he could hardly see. It seemed as if they were all locked in some terrible nightmare from which there would be no waking.

He stood on trembling legs, stumbling about like a beast that has been shot and managed to grasp at someone’s shoulder saying, “find Melian, find Melian!” But the queen, it seemed, already knew, for she was hurrying towards them now like a thundercloud, grown thin, and gaunt, and black, her eyes sunken in her skull, her face distorted in grief, and she sank down, her body curled around that of her daughter, and wept.

*****

Spring had passed and summer too in somberness had come and gone, burning itself away quick and hot, and the world had passed into autumn, an unusually chilly one where the musk of decaying leaves hung heavy in the air and the trees, black and devoid of greenery reached up to a gray sky that foreboded a perilous winter.

Within Menegroth all was blackness. Cold. Impenetrable. Unforgiving. Perpetual night had descended upon the city and, though days and weeks had passed, never again had the daytime sky or the light of the sun appeared in the blackness above those limitless caverns. Neither did the moon travel there either. Instead, the ceiling had turned to pure inky black dotted only by the distant stars. Not since before the rising of the sun and moon had it been so and Celeborn found it strange now that this unsettled him as much as it did, for he had lived the vast majority of his life in this darkness, but now he found that his eyes were ill adjusted to it. 

The blackness made him feel as if he were drowning, drowning in a nightmare from which he could not wake, from which he could never wake. And all about there seemed to be some mournful gloom brooding motionlessly over the whole city. The stars seemed harsh almost, sharp as spears, cruel arbiters of fate hovering uncaringly above. He had believed these to be souls once upon a time, souls that Ilúvatar had recalled to the heavens. Then the Noldor had come, mocking their primal beliefs. “The stars are the stars!” They had said, “and souls go to Námo’s halls.” But if the stars were not souls then why did they loom in monolithic judgment?

Huan they had buried with the honor that befitted him. But Luthien and Beren had lain in state for some time on a bier of black velvet, strewn with white niphredil and surrounded by a thousand flickering white candles. Thingol had insisted upon the wake, almost as though while his daughter was still above the ground he believed she might by some miracle return to life and he would not have to consign her to the earth. He had passed nearly every moment there at her side, so strong was his futile hope, so deep his agonizing grief. Melian did not come, though the King asked for her, inquired after her, and yet she was there, in the heavens gone dark; in the absence of the stars her grief was made manifest.

“Celeborn,” the king had looked up from his daughter’s bier, hands gone skeletal with grief, grasping Luthien’s, cold, and stiff, and dead, “will you bring me the Silmaril? I need to see it. When I look at the light I…I don’t feel…” Thingol’s voice trailed off. Celeborn had bowed his head and did as he was bid. It was pity that had moved him.

The hard-won Silmaril borne of blood and fire and washed in the tribute of spent lives sat in a velvet-lined case of silver. Every step he took towards the treasury seeming as the footfalls of doom and then when the box had been passed over into his hands, he had carried it back to Thingol, this small thing for which all of Arda would tithe in flesh and bone and ruined happiness: marriages destroyed, love torn asunder, children cast out and broken. 

To him this stone was inconsequential. What was the beauty of a gem compared to the goodness of Lúthien’s heart? What was the glory of a Silmaril compared to the honor of Finrod? What was the light of this stone compared to the valor of Beren? 

He had returned to the King.

“Thank you,” Thingol had rasped out, leaning heavily on the bier, and Celeborn had opened the box, the light blazing forth into that otherwise black and gloomy hall. The long shadows it cast on the floor were eerie, almost as though the souls of those who had died for the Silmarils were imprisoned therein. Thingol seemed more at ease as he gazed upon the stone, as though it had relieved his pain and then he reached out, running his fingers across it gingerly, almost as though he feared it, then again lovingly with the giddy delight of a child. His eyes grew sad for a moment. “This is all that remains of them,” he said, “the two trees…this light…how I wished to see them again…” He took a deep breath and then seemed to come back to himself, looking away. “Thank you,” he mumbled, “thank you. You may take it away now.” 

It had made Celeborn sick to see his cousin laid out on that bier. He could not help but remember Lúthien as she had been when she was alive, so full of life, of energy, of joy. He wanted to remember her as she had been running in the footraces, dancing at the summer festivals, holding him in her lap when he had been an elfling, covering his eyes with her hands, “you hide first! I’ll count to 20!” In this world of death and ruination there had been a certain inviolable goodness to her that he doubted he would ever see the like of again. But every time he looked at his cousin’s corpse he saw only cold, unforgiving death and he had to look away again before the tears overwhelmed him. Her beauty was legend. Yet in life the beauty of her hröa had barely done justice to the glory of her soul; in death it could not begin to hope to. Her corpse was a gruesome mockery of her life.

When Celeborn was alone in the privacy of his chambers he did not quench the tears, but allowed them to fall freely, his hands to his face weeping like a babe. Most of the time he did not know what he was crying for; there were so many reasons. He found himself wishing all the more for Galadriel, if only because things could certainly not be so dark if she were here. It was so unimaginably hard. The crown had not yet passed to him formally, the King was still the king in name, but the power, the responsibility, the weight of it all sat on his shoulders. He went to court and he judged, he allotted, he appointed as if he were the king and all the while the darkness and sadness hung over him, threatening to smother him while Thingol did nothing more than sit and stare at what had been Lúthien or brood darkly over that accursed jewel. 

Everything was so very, very difficult but he was determined that he would not shatter and break. Some days it was easier than others; some days it took all his courage to take a single step, but he continued to walk, to step forward, even if it was slowly that he did so, to do what needed to be done. He would not stop. For the sake of Finrod, of Lúthien, of Melian, of Thingol, of his people he would not be stopped. He tried his very best to remember every time he saw what Thingol had become, or the corpses of Lúthien and Beren, that it was Morgoth who had worked this evil and each time he looked upon the works of the dark lord he became even further resolved to thwart him in all things despite the burden it placed upon himself. He understood now: that this was what it meant to be a king – to be the sepulcher of others’ lives and dreams and then to take them and do the impossible – to breathe new life into them, leaving nothing for yourself. 

They had buried Lúthien at last in the cold hard ground – she and Beren both; a fate that neither of them deserved. But then, this earth had taught him enough to know that rarely did anyone get what they deserved: whether for good or ill. He had never asked for this. He had never wanted it. None of them had. It had come nevertheless. As they lowered his cousin into the ground he had turned his eyes west towards the blood-red sun where the Valar sat enthroned upon the bones of his people and remembered Beren’s words: ‘to have such power of forgiveness as Lúthien has is beyond us it seems.’ Forgiveness was a luxury that only gods could afford and if ever Celeborn met the gods it was they who would have to beg his forgiveness. 

“The Silmaril, Celeborn, bring it to me,” Thingol had begged as he sat by Lúthien’s grave beneath a starless and unforgiving sky. Celeborn had hesitated this time and the light in Thingol’s eyes had changed for a moment – approaching a sudden and inflammatory rage – but he had stopped himself, seeming surprised, and then instead finished with, “if you please.” 

Pity had moved him. He had made the trek to the treasury. “The Silmaril,” he said and they had given it to him immediately. There was an irony in it. The Noldor had long lusted after this stone, murdered for it, fought great wars for it, spent their lives utterly for it and never had they even touched it. Celeborn they had demeaned, calling him a forest lord, a dark elf, a lesser prince, but all he had to do to touch a Silmaril was ask. Had he cared but a little more for power or fame or jewels then that thought might have warped his mind. But, he didn’t want it, this thing that had killed the people he had loved; he couldn’t understand why Thingol did.

“Show it to me?” The king had begged, a question this time, as if he was nearly ashamed that he had to ask. “I just want to see it, just once now.”

“Just 30 more pieces of silver, Celeborn! 30 more! The game isn’t finished yet. I can still win it!” Venessiel’s face rose unbidden to his mind.

“You’ve already lost 90,” he had murmured, hesitant to refuse her, fearful that she would not love him anymore if he didn’t give them to her.

“With 30 more pieces I can win! You’ll see. I promise! I promise.” And he had given them to her. 

The memory faded and Thingol’s face swam back into view. “Just once, my son…” he repeated and, hesitantly, because he had called him his son once more, Celeborn had opened the box. The perverted light belched out and the King gazed upon the jewel with awe. It seemed to soothe his soul, to make him forget, and all he wanted was the bliss of forgetting. But forgetting was long and bitter; obsession was short and sweet. Thingol wasn’t a king; Thingol was a slave.

“They left me,” Thingol said quietly as he gazed enraptured upon the jewel. He sounded like a child. “Finwë, Olwë, they left me. I thought we were going to go to live with the Valar, to see the trees together again. I had planned to live beneath their branches, to raise our people and nurture them in the light of those trees. When I came out of the woods…and the Noldor and the Teleri were gone… I knew I had been abandoned, we had all been abandoned…that I had failed my people. When Galadriel spoke of what had happened I knew I would never see them again…save in this there was hope, faint and frail…but hope there was,” he reached out, running his fingers across the jewel. “Why did the Valar abandon us? Why did they keep those of Aman safe and leave the Sindar here to die and be enslaved? No…” he halted, his voice so frail, like thin glass, “the Sindar have suffered because of me…because I delayed. Why did they love me, when it was I who betrayed them?” His voice faded and then his eyes flashed with a strange light.

“Don’t you want to touch it?” He asked, dangerous now, looking up at Celeborn with suspicious eyes but the prince only shook his head. “Take it,” Thingol commanded.

“I don’t want to touch it,” Celeborn replied firmly. “I don’t want it.”

“TOUCH IT!” Thingol had roared and Celeborn, startled, did as he was bid, taking the jewel into his hand, nearly dropping the case in his shock. The touch of it made him feel sick, almost as though he could feel on its surface all of the blood that had been spilt over it, as if all of those dead souls were imprisoned within that crystal, crying out to him, begging him to free them. But Thingol seemed to shrink now, growing small, shaking his head, his eyes having gone wide. “I…I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me…I don’t know…” Celeborn stuffed the jewel back in the box and made to close the lid.

“Not yet!” Thingol had cried in a suppliant voice. “Not yet, not yet, Celeborn, just a…just a little longer…a little,” his breathing had grown ragged and Celeborn had hesitated. Thingol’s eyes shifted again, as quickly as a summer storm is born. 

“They were right, Fëanor was right,” Thingol mused, his eyes, filled with a strange gleam, having gone once more to the Silmaril, “about Galadriel’s hair…When she returned from Nargothrond, begging me for leniency…I knew I could take it and she could not stop me…” Celeborn slammed the lid of the box shut, his eyes quick with anger, and turned to take it back to the treasury. Thingol did not protest. 

The light of the trees that Galadriel bore in her eyes was a thousand upon a thousand times more beautiful than the light imprisoned in that cursed stone. He wrote to her. Nothing else gave him solace. In the face of darkness his love for her blazed brighter than even the Silmaril. 

You told me so long ago that if I saw you as you truly were I would have no regard for you at all, he wrote. But it was because I saw you as you truly were from the very first moment that I loved you, though I did not know it. After the battle of Beleriand the darkness and light warred in my soul. I had thought I was alone until the night I saw you.

She had replied: are things truly so bad as to cause you to wax poetic? 

She was being facetious, no doubt, a bit unsettled by his uncharacteristic outpouring of sentiment perhaps, but he had replied with sincerity: there is nothing that I hate more than this Silmaril.

That is why I love you, she wrote. 

Thingol sat in his dark hall upon his dark throne. “They left us behind,” he said. “They left us and now they think they are better than us…call us Moriquendi…move into our lands….”

“Pay it no mind,” Celeborn had said. Thingol’s eyes had grown dark, his face twisting into a sneer.

“Pay it no mind?” He had replied, laughing long and hard with malice. The incarnation was complete and Curufin gazed back at Celeborn from Thingol’s throne. Or maybe even Curufin’s eyes did not belong to him; perhaps they belonged to Fëanor, just as this jewel did, and Fëanor haunted it still: a wraith adorned in the gruesome trappings of death. “Bring me the Silmaril.” It was a request no longer; it had become a command.

“No,” Celeborn said simply. Pity moved him.

“Bring it!” Thingol screeched, flying up from his throne, his fingers still gripping it, trembling.

“No,” Celeborn replied again, quietly, unperturbed. 

“Lúthien died for the Silmaril, Celeborn,” Thingol had whispered with spite, “do consider that.”

“Lúthien did not die for a Silmaril,” Celeborn said. “Lúthien died for love.” He turned to leave, his heart grown heavy and he struggled to bear it up. But he stopped at the sound of stumbling footsteps and turned to find Thingol staggering towards him with a harrowed look, his eyes black and sunken in his head, his bones showing clearly against his skin. 

“Celeborn…Celeborn,” he gasped, tripping over his robes and nearly collapsing, his hands reaching out and, unthinking, Celeborn ran forward to catch him, pulling his uncle into a tight embrace as he lowered him to sit upon the floor. With trembling hands, Thingol clutched at the prince’s tunic, burying his head in Celeborn’s shoulder like a child and sobbing, his tears staining the silk. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t do this alone. I can’t…”

“I know,” Celeborn replied, his own voice unsteady. He wanted more than anything to believe what Thingol said, he wanted more than anything to believe his repentance to be sincere and yet, as surely as Lúthien could not be raised from the dead, neither could his trust in the King.

They were immortal, incapable of contracting illness, and yet Thingol was dying, Thingol was sick, his body and mind wasting away under the power of his grief, within the prison of all that the Silmaril embodied. Time did not heal him and, as days, and weeks, and months passed, the king became even frailer. Something about the jewel seemed to drain one of life. Perhaps, the prince mused, that is because it has taken so many lives. Though he had refused to be involved with the cursed thing any longer, a very worried Venessiel had confided in him that Thingol had taken up the habit of sitting in the treasury for hours or even days at a time simply staring at the stone in silence.

“Uncle!” Celeborn cried as they entered the council chamber, leaping forward to catch the king just as he had been about to fall, throwing Thingol’s arm over his shoulder and supporting his weight, maneuvering him into a chair. 

Now this letter had come from Maedhros and it had only served to worsen the king’s already fragile constitution. “Thank you, Celeborn, thank you,” Thingol murmured as if he were out of breath, accepting his nephew’s assistance as, his whole body trembling, he allowed the prince to lower him into his chair. It was a strange thing, Celeborn thought, to see an elf brought so very low with grief that he had become almost…old. 

It seemed that the vitality of his mind had wasted away along with that of his body and that, Celeborn was certain, was the work of the Silmaril. At times Thingol would lash out in anger, always the fleeting sort of anger, and yet it was not so vindictive as his anger had been when Beren had first come to Menegroth. This was a different sort of anger, childish, almost the sort that Nimloth had displayed when she had not been able to visit with her friends. It was an escape from his grief and so Celeborn found that he could not be entirely angry with him, but sad also, and he did his best to help his uncle, to assist him in whatever way he could.

“Have you eaten?” He asked quietly and the king shook his head. “In how long?” Celeborn queried but the king merely shook his head again. “Just a moment then,” the prince said, going to the door.

“Will you please have something brought up from the kitchens, something hearty?” He asked the guard and the man nodded, leaving to do as he had been bid, as Celeborn returned to his uncle’s side.

“You will feel better,” he told Thingol in a kind voice, “if you eat something.” The king only looked away, as if he were lost deep in memory, and Celeborn sat at his side, breaking the seal on Maedhros’s letter. If what news he had heard from Galadriel was true then he already had a good idea of what it would contain and, as he skimmed the words and sighed, his heart grew heavy. He hated to put this upon Thingol now.

“The Noldor are planning to go to war against Morgoth, as we have heard,” he said, smoothing the parchment and pushing it before Thingol so that the King could read it. He did, distractedly playing with the edges of the paper. 

“I will not join Maedhros’s union,” he said, his voice clipped. “We shall not fight alongside kinslayers, alongside those who captured my Lúthien, imprisoned her, and threatened her with harm.”

“Thank you,” Celeborn said, nodding to the guard who had just entered bearing with her a tray laden with food and drink. He took the tray from the woman, setting it before Thingol, “here,” he said, “eat,” and the king complied, though he seemed to have little real interest in the food. His gaze shifted to his nephew and Celeborn waited patiently for the King to speak. 

“Do you want to fight?” Thingol asked quietly, and there was no judgment in his gaze but Celeborn considered his thoughts very carefully before speaking, mostly because he was unsure of them himself, but also because he knew that he could not trust the King. He wanted very much to ride to war, simply because sitting in these caves was achieving no victory, and yet there was some foreboding in his mind, bolstered by Galadriel’s vague written warnings, that to do so would be most unwise.

“It seems,” he said, “that this may be the last chance of victory against Morgoth, for the Noldor dwindle with each battle that they fight and soon their numbers may not be sufficient to muster an army. I wonder what shall become of us if Morgoth is not defeated. It seems that all Beleriand may soon fall under his control. Shall his influence spread unabated?”

“Why do the Valar not come?” Thingol murmured, picking at the bread before him. It seemed almost a foolish thing to voice given what an obvious question it was, and yet the answer was not so obvious. “Do they only love those of Aman?” His voice betrayed some restlessness. “Are our lives so worthless to them?” He shook his head, casting his eyes down. 

“I do not know,” Celeborn said with a sigh. It was a question to which he wished he knew the answer, only he did not know what good knowing it would do him. They fell silent and, after a while, Thingol spoke again.

“If you wish to go,” he said, “or if there are any others who wish to fight then I will not stop them, even though I shall not send any armies, so long as they do not fight alongside the sons of Fëanor, slayers of our kin.” The king’s eyes burned with anger.

“I will not go,” Celeborn said after careful consideration. If he had been a prince then he might have, but now…now Thingol needed him, the people needed him. A crown prince could not risk his life in war if he had no heir. “I shall focus on fortifying our borders instead, with your leave. If there was a chance of victory then perhaps I would go, and yet it seems to me that Maedhros is planting a seed in untilled ground. Morgoth’s spies have been restless of late. He has some plan afoot, I am sure of it.” 

“Is it only because it seems unwise that you will not go? What of your anger with the Fëanorians?” Thingol said, his voice suddenly full of venom and his eyes full of spite, having disregarded the logic of his nephew’s reply and read insult where none had been intended. “Will you not speak of that? Or has your lust for your Noldorin bride overridden your loyalties?”

“You know that I have no love for the Fëanorians, just as you know that Galadriel is more Telerin than she is Noldo!” Celeborn rounded on his uncle. It was the Silmaril that was speaking, he knew, but that did not give him any less cause for his wrath. “You ought to surrender that stone to Maedhros as he demanded, as I have urged you to do, as Melian has urged you to do!” Celeborn fumed, his fists clenched in fury. “Your poor choices will be the death of us.”

“Surrender the jewel that Beren and Lúthien paid for in blood, paid for with their very lives?” Thingol spat, as if this was the most foolish and offensive thing he had ever heard. “Surrender that hard-bought gem to a son of Fëanor who slew my brother’s sons, who demanded the Silmaril from me in a letter filled with haughty words in misspelled Sindarin that bears witness to the fact that they have flouted my decrees, whose brothers vowed openly to slay me?”

“They vowed to slay you only because you refused to give them the jewel!” Celeborn retorted. Thingol’s fragility of a few minutes earlier was gone now, leaving Celeborn wondering if it had all been a ruse to regain his trust. The king slithered back in his seat like a serpent, his eyes cold and hard, watching Celeborn with distrust.

“Are you their apologist now?” Thingol laughed unpleasantly, raising a silver brow as if this were all some joke. “Perhaps you are in league with them, you and Melian both. What good is a disobedient prince? What good is a queen who refuses the king’s bed?” 

“Do not make such insane accusations,” Celeborn retorted. He could have chosen his words a bit better but he hardly believed it mattered. There was no reasoning with, no placating a mind gone mad or a heart gone dark.

“Who are you to tell me what I should and should not do?” Thingol asked with a sneer. “I am the King of Doriath am I not? And what are you? You came to me as a foundling. I could turn you out just as easily.”

“Will you not think of what you are doing?” Celeborn cried. “Only a few months ago you told me that the girdle might fall and that I, our people, your entire kingdom would be at the mercy of the Fëanorians! Now you refuse them the Silmaril and taunt them with arrogant and prideful words. You have as good as signed the death warrant of each of your citizens!”

Thingol leaned forward across the table, leveling his eyes with Celeborn’s, an unpleasant look in their depths: pain and anger warring with each other, and something nastier. “The wolf – Carcharoth – spoke to me before he died,” Thingol whispered. “And do you know what he told me?” Celeborn shook his head in the negative though he was quite sure that he did not want to know the answer at all. “That wolf was fed by Morgoth’s own hand with elf flesh, and not just any elf, but the flesh of your father and your grandfather, on the flesh of the Sindarin princes of Doriath.” Celeborn felt his stomach lurch at the grotesque nature of what Thingol had revealed to him. The king leaned back, almost as though he was pleased with himself. 

“My grandfather was your beloved brother, my father your nephew, both as dear to you as if they were your own sons,” Celeborn said, his voice trembling, his breath growing shallow, “how dare you do them dishonor by breaking the news of their deaths to me in such a fashion?”

“You need to learn,” Thingol began, his voice low and dangerous, “you need to be cognizant of the fact that you have nothing except for me. Do not bite the hand that feeds you, Celeborn.”

The prince said nothing more, for he knew that in his anger whatever he said would be unwise, and instead he stood, nearly toppling his chair, striding from the room, his singular desire to be as far away from the King as he could.

*****

The summer had waned and, at long last, Galadriel had found the courage to go to Finrod’s room but, now that she had arrived, she stood outside the tall cedar doors, the golden key held tentatively between her hesitant fingers. At last she had fit it into the lock, her hand gentle on the door as she pushed it open and, as she shut the door quietly behind her, she could not help but smile a bittersweet smile.

It had not been touched since he had left, that much was plain to see, and the whole room bespoke her brother, simple and yet filled with complexities. The rustling of the silk of her gown as she slowly made her way around the room was the only sound that filled the silence. 

Her fingertips wandered over a host of memories: a little oliphant carved of ivory that he had received from an eastern merchant, a gem he had brought from Tirion of smoky brown glass veined with a blue so brilliant it resembled the flash of lightening: not particularly valuable, but intriguing. Here, there were all varieties of flowers pressed in the pages of books: books of language, of philosophy, of culture and customs, of far off places that seemed mere fairytales. There, there were maps that had nearly been worn out from the path that Finrod’s fingers had traced across them, an inkwell left unstoppered, a pair of shoes cast off and forgotten. There was a little doll that Lúthien had given him so long ago, a dwarven-made hair clasp, a leather belt with hand-tooled designs: the Laiquendi had given it to him shortly after their arrival in Middle-earth. It was all here, his dreams, his soul: a menagerie of curiosities. Galadriel drew a shuddering breath and sank down upon the bed he had left unmade.

Had her parents done the same thing after she and her brothers had left? Had they wandered the halls of their newly-empty house? Had they numbly sat upon the beds gone cold? Had each abandoned and forgotten belonging suddenly gained the importance of some sacred relic? The tears fell silently to land in her lap and she reached up to wipe them away. Still, they fell. 

It was so hard to believe him dead without a body, so hard to think that she would never see any of her brothers again, that she was alone now. No, not alone. She had Celeborn, and Orodreth, and Finduilas. The thought did not staunch the pain that poured forth. One by one the curse was claiming its victims: Ambarussa, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Angrod, Aegnor, Finrod, Lúthien, Beren, Thingol, Melian; Fingon must know that his crown was as good as a death sentence; Turgon must know that it would take his head as well.

And her…why was she the last of Finarfin’s children? Why had she been thus far spared? Was it, as Melian had said, because her bond with Celeborn had perhaps mitigated the potency of the curse? Was his sharing in her burden what was keeping her alive? The child…she clutched at her abdomen. Was that what Melian had meant? Would her curse work upon her children? But if Celeborn’s innocence could dilute her fate, could it no preserve their children as well? He had done no wrong. Were he to touch a Silmaril his hand would be unscathed. 

The only wrong he has done is in loving me. The thought had risen unbidden to her mind and it rattled her to her core as once more she recalled the vision she had seen of his death. I have stained him… And now…now the Silmaril was in Menegroth and she felt as though she was watching the scenes of some macabre play fall into place. The mad panic of fear she felt at knowing that the cursed jewel was anywhere near Celeborn tore at her heart. Throw it away, destroy it, flee, she wanted to shout to him but she knew that he had already had these thoughts, that it was impossible for him to act on them or else he would have done so.

He should not have to suffer on her account. She briefly contemplated fleeing away over the mountains. But no, he had already taken the burden upon himself when he had mingled his blood with hers. He had done it willingly, knowingly. He, she was sure, did not doubt now as she did; he was certain. 

She needed his certainty now, longed for him, and found herself wishing, contrary to her thoughts of a moment earlier, that they were truly bonded so that she might be able to feel him in her mind, to hear his thoughts and rely upon the strength of his heart beating in concert with his own. And so she must be certain too; she owed it to him.

She understood now his words of so long ago. She had wanted to be a queen and now, in effect, she was acting as the queen of Nargothrond, but being a queen meant stuffing your fear down inside when all you wanted to do was weep, it meant acting as though everything was normal even though your brother and your dearest friend had just died, it meant that there was no room for mistakes, it meant being so very, very alone, confiding your thoughts and feelings in no one. 

She wished Celeborn were here with her, but Doriath needed him: Thingol was a broken man; Melian was dead as stone. Just as her mother’s kin had been slain in Alqualondë, as her brothers had been slain here in Middle-earth, she felt fate now bearing down upon Doriath, upon the last family that remained to her, and upon Orodreth and Finduilas as well. She wished that Finrod were here to give her courage, to give her advice, to ignite her heart and mind with visions of lands far away where they might be free at last, and safe. It was so hard to imagine that he would never return to her. It might have been easier if there had been a body to see and know that he was really and truly dead. 

She briefly contemplated taking something to remember him by, the Oliphant, or the doll, for that was a reminder of Lúthien as well, but it did not seem quite right to consign the memories of people who had lived, and breathed, and danced, and sang to the cold, lifeless, motionless, emptiness of things. For their memories lived in her heart, which was alive, and pulsing, and beating in her body, a sanctum in which their lives would be forever hallowed, forever lived in her. 

She lay down upon her brother’s bed, slipping beneath the blankets, her silent tears falling into his pillow. It still smelt of him. She closed her eyes. In time it would not. The day dimmed to evening, then night, then rose to morning and, she rose with the sun, taking one last look at her brother’s room before she stepped outside and closed the door, locking it before she took the key and slid it beneath the door back into the room, saying her silent goodbye.

Time seemed to pass slowly in Nargothrond, or maybe it was the loneliness that made the days seem so long. Her mind was strangely devoid of visions lately and whether that portended good or ill she did not know but it seemed that there was always some strange and nondescript foreboding tugging at the back of her mind. It had settled upon her like frost even as snow began to fall slowly, blanketing the woodlands of Beleriand.

This winter was unusually cold, so cold that even within the ordinarily temperate caves of Nargothrond there was a draft and, as Galadriel and Orodreth perused the plea that Maedhros had issued, Galadriel found herself wishing that she had brought a shawl with her. She looked down at the tiny goose pimples that had erupted on her arms and sighed before returning her attention to her nephew. 

“And what will you do?” She asked Orodreth, looking up at him, but her nephew met her gaze with a sheepish look and she knew, with a sinking feeling, that once more he had come to no conclusion of his own and was merely waiting for her to make the decision. It must have been difficult for Curufin and Celegorm to oust Finrod but, she was sure that once her brother had left, it had been all too easy for them to wrest power from Orodreth. Her nephew had a kind heart: too kind.

“Well, ah…we could either send an army or not…” Orodreth began by stating the obvious. Galadriel tried not to let her frustration show, that would only encourage him to appease her further when what she really wanted was for him to make a decision on his own, without fishing about trying to feel out what she wanted him to do. She waited for him to continue but he did not and fell silent instead.

“That is true,” she said at last, realizing that her nephew would be speaking no further without her goading him. “What reasons have you for sending an army?” Orodreth latched onto her question with relief, assuming that she was leading him in the direction she wanted and he was only too happy to follow. 

“This may very well be the last stand that we can take against Morgoth,” he said. “The Fëanorians and whatever men and dwarves they gather to their cause certainly cannot defeat Morgoth without the assistance of Nargothrond and, more importantly, Doriath.” Orodreth was not slow, as the Fëanorians often jested. He knew well enough what was going on. He simply had no desire to have anything to do with it.

“And can they defeat Morgoth, even with assistance from Nargothrond and Doriath?” Galadriel asked and Orodreth paused, confused, for he had assumed that she was leading him towards one answer and now she seemed to be leading him towards the opposite one. 

“No?” Orodreth said, a question, seeking confirmation in his Aunt’s eyes. 

“Can you explain your reasoning?” Galadriel asked and, tentatively, as if he feared he had answered incorrectly, Orodreth began to do so.

“The elven armies, all of them, even Doriath, were at their strongest just after we arrived in Middle-Earth,” he said, “and even then we could not win.”

“And?” Galadriel prodded him.

“And Doriath will not fight,” Orodreth continued, “especially not after Lúthien was held captive here by Celegorm and Curufin.”

Something you could have, should have prevented! Galadriel wanted to snap at him. Instead, she remained silent.

“That is correct,” she said and Orodreth breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You cannot write to the prince, ask him to aid Maedhros’s cause?” Orodreth asked. “I thought you said that he wanted to oust Morgoth.” Galadriel shook her head. 

“We have spoken of the matter in letters and Doriath will not fight,” she said. And she was not upset with Celeborn about it either, though by his letters she knew that he had feared she would not support his concurrence with Thingol’s decision to send no army. She understood why he had supported the king and she knew that sometimes it took a good deal more courage to abstain from war than to march to it. Lúthien’s death had changed everything.

He had written to her of all that had passed. Of course she had known that now he was next in line to the throne and she had seen from her visions that Thingol and Melian were nearing their end, but seeing that Celeborn had earnestly put it all on paper had somehow made it so much more real. All her life she had wanted to be a queen but the words he had written had filled her with sadness and it was with a heavy heart that she now considered the possibility of ascending to the throne.

I know that you would not have it this way, and neither would I, but if Thingol perishes and Melian flees it would be better if you returned and wed me immediately. If you are the Queen of Doriath it may be that we can buy time against the Fëanorians, enough time to shepherd the people to safety across the mountains before we surrender the Silmaril to them.

It was written there between the lines. He knew that surrendering the Silmaril would not spare them, that her cousins would seek their vengeance against the Sindar for having withheld the jewel and thus he would seek to send the people to safety first. She did not know if she was strong enough to keep them safe on the journey and that was why she had not answered this second marriage proposal as quickly as she had the first. Then again, she knew, as he had written himself, that he did not want things to be this way, but it had nearly made her feel as though she was to be a queen for utility’s sake alone, though of course she knew it was from love that Celeborn would wed her. But rulers, she reminded herself, do not have the luxury of having things as they like. They must do what they can when they can and she was resolved to marry Celeborn however she could, whenever she could.

So she had written back: Yes, of course I shall. But the city must be prepared for a mass evacuation, Celeborn, if the need arises, for I am certainly not as strong as Melian and I do not know how long I shall be able to hold of Morgoth’s minions or my cousins and perhaps I will not be able to hold them off at all. 

The thought of evacuating all of Doriath was daunting to say the least but Galadriel did not doubt that, if anyone was capable of it, it was certainly Celeborn and his reply to her letter had confirmed her thoughts. I have already begun the preparations. Though, of course, they remain secret. It would not do to send the people into a panic. And if Maedhros’s plan goes ill then this city will be ready, once more, to take in those in need of refuge. 

So that’s what he was doing, she mused, and that must be in part why he had had a change of heart regarding going to war. It was, in all probability, the wiser decision at this point and besides, with Lúthien gone, the life of the crown prince could hardly be risked in battle. Galathil she loved dearly, Oropher…well Oropher had his good points she supposed, but the thought of either of them on the throne of Doriath was unsettling, just as the thought of Orodreth on Nargothrond’s throne was unsettling. She glanced towards her nephew, who was smiling benignly at the document before him, and sighed.

“Tea, Auntie?” A lovely voice like the chime of a bell came from Galadriel’s left, and she and Orodreth looked up to find that Finduilas, who was wearing a soft, rose-colored gown, was standing there by the table holding a silver tray laden with a porcelain teapot, cups, and a bowl of biscuits.

“Thank you, Finduilas. That is very thoughtful of you,” Galadriel said with a smile. The girl smiled and set the tray down, pouring the tea. 

“I like this one with the flower pattern a lot,” Finduilas said softly with a little blush, gesturing to the teapot.

“It is very fine,” Galadriel told her with great fondness. 

“Am I interrupting, Father?” The girl asked, looking up suddenly at Orodreth, the idea having just now occurred to her. 

“Not at all, my dear,” Orodreth said with a smile.

“That is well,” Finduilas said with a little laugh as she handed Galadriel and her father cups of tea. She was older than Nimloth but their ages were not so very disparate; their personalities, however, were like night and day. Nimloth would have been more likely to hurl teacups at them while shouting about how they just couldn’t appreciate her poetry. Galadriel smiled. So many people had remarked upon the physical similarities between Galadriel and her niece. Sweet, docile, golden-haired Finduilas looked like she could have been her daughter. Fierce, frustrating, silver-haired Nimloth acted like she could have been her daughter. Galadriel smiled again, shaking her head with amusement at her thoughts. Each of the girls, it seemed, had made their own space in her heart.

“Why don’t you sit with us?” Galadriel beckoned her niece.

“Oh! Are you certain? I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Finduilas said but Galadriel shook her head.

“I assure you that you are not,” she replied and Finduilas acquiesced, taking a seat primly and properly and pouring her own tea.

“Your father tells me that you are betrothed?” Galadriel asked and Finduilas blushed as pink as a summer rose, nodding.

“Yes,” she said, “his name is Gwindor.”

“I hope he makes you happy,” Galadriel said and her niece nodded. 

“Oh yes,” she said, “very happy indeed.”

“Then I am very happy for you,” Galadriel said with a smile.

“Thank you Auntie,” Finduilas replied, her eyes filled with joy. She seemed on the verge of words again for a moment before, at last, she spoke, “and…you are engaged as well I have heard?” She glanced down at the ring on Galadriel’s finger.

“Indeed,” Galadriel said. “A long awaited betrothal and a long awaited wedding.”

“Oh I am sorry if I have offended!” Finduilas cried, her blue eyes wide as her hands flew to her mouth as though she wished to stuff the words back in. 

“No, not at all!” Galadriel assured her with a laugh. “It has rather become a running joke after all amongst both Sindar and Noldor. At last, something both of our peoples can agree on.” Orodreth and Finduilas both laughed at that.

“It is good, I think,” Orodreth said happily. “For my own wife, as you know, is a Sinda, though she served in the court at Gondolin, and I would see more such intermarriages. Indeed,” he said, his voice becoming suddenly more solemn, “I dream of the day we will all live in harmony and equality: Noldor, Sindar, Laiquendi, Avari, Humans, Dwarves.”

“An admirable goal,” Galadriel said, sipping her tea, and though she did indeed find the idea appealing, she doubted its practicality, at least at this moment. More than that, however, Orodreth’s idealism worried her. It hobbled him, kept him wrapped up in perfectionistic notions, some would say naïve notions, and prevented him from taking action, from making decisions, from getting things done. He had been all too willing to turn over power to her upon her arrival and she had not even coerced him as Curufin and Celegorm had, in fact she hadn’t even asked; he had simply given her his kingdom. 

She worried whom he would give it to when she was gone, for she saw now that there was little hope that he would change his ways. Despite Thingol’s new-found madness, she found herself all the more appreciative of him as he had been once upon a time. She had not fully realized, so long ago, all of the competing pressures that a king faced, all of the difficult decisions that fell to him, how challenging it was to control your kingdom rather than letting it control you. For all the trouble Thingol’s counselors occasionally gave him, there had never been a doubt in her mind that it was he who ruled them rather than the other way around. Orodreth, however, was ruled by the whims and fancies and bullying and badgering of others. 

“Well, I certainly hope, Finduilas,” Galadriel said, draining her cup of tea, “that we shall both be present at each other’s weddings.”

“Oh of course!” Finduilas said, her eyes sparkling with joy. “That would just be simply lovely.”

“Well then, Orodreth,” Galadriel said, turning to her nephew, “do you think we are finished for today?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Orodreth said with a smile. “Do you think so?”

“I am asking you, as the king,” Galadriel murmured, growing a bit frustrated with him again. He was too considerate a person for the position he held.

“Oh, well…” he paused, looking to her as if he were trying to read the answer to her question in her eyes. “Well…uh…yes, well, if that is what you think. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Orodreth,” Galadriel said, trying to remain patient with him though, in the months she had been here he had not improved at all on this front, “you are the King. My inconvenience should not be your concern.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Well yes,” he said, “yes then, let us all get some rest. It is late, after all.”

“Of course,” Galadriel said, rising and bowing, favoring Finduilas with a smile before they all quit the room and adjourned to their beds.

She was, actually, quite exhausted and so, with a sigh, she began to pull out her hairpins as she made her way to her room, planning on falling straight to sleep. She had taken up residence in her old rooms once more and taken to sleeping during the night again, as the Noldor did. Perhaps it was that change in schedule that had made her feel so exhausted these past few months, but she rather suspected a different cause. She had not realized how much she had come to depend upon Celeborn for support and strength and she was now having to painstakingly revert to living life alone. It had left her wondering how she had ever done things alone in the first place, how anyone managed to.

Her thoughts were thus occupied when she opened the door to her chambers and slipped inside, so occupied that she did not notice the elf sitting in a chair by the door until he leapt to his feet. “Artanis!” Celebrimbor cried, but Galadriel shrieked in surprise and leapt backward into the door. 

She came to her senses rather quickly though, a result, perhaps, of having lived amongst the suspicious Sindar for so very long, and cried, “you startled me!” He had, and she had not appreciated it. What was more, she had not been particularly keen on running into Celebrimbor, least of all in her chambers. 

“You have been avoiding me!” Celebrimbor cried, his eyes flashing in hurt and anger as he crossed his arms tightly over her chest. She couldn’t fault him for that; it was true.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Galadriel cried, her anger getting the best of her, but then again, anger seemed a rational reaction in this case. “After all your talk of how different you are from your father I arrive and find that you have been here with him in Nargothrond, supporting his treason against my brother and against my nephew!”

“It was not so!” Celebrimbor cried, striding forward and taking her hands in his but Galadriel tore one of her hands free and slapped him across the face. 

“That is for Finrod,” she said in a trembling voice, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “If you supported him then you ought to have gone with him and died at his side.” Celebrimbor was quiet for a moment as though he could not quite believe what she had done and then he spoke again. 

“I stayed here,” he said, “because I am the one thread of sanity that can hold my father in place. I stayed to ensure that there was someone left to oppose Curufin and Celegorm. They would have put Orodreth to the sword if I hadn’t been here to stop them; ask him yourself.”

“Then why are you still here?” Galadriel asked, turning away, crossing her arms over her chest and striding to the ceiling high glass doors that opened out onto Nargothrond’s gardens. Celebrimbor approached slowly and she heard him come to a stop behind her.

“You know why,” he said gently. “You left without saying goodbye,” he said, his tone neither kind nor accusatory. 

“What else should I have done? You would have sought to detain me,” she murmured, looking out onto the canopy of the trees below. 

“I will not lie to you, perhaps I would have,” Celebrimbor said, “but it was only because my feelings for you…” His voice trailed off and Galadriel turned around to face him, her eyes fierce.

“Celebrimbor,” she said sternly, “I am betrothed to Celeborn of Doriath, as good as married. Whatever happened between you and I was a mistake. Do not place any hope in it.”

“Betrothed is not the same as married!” Celebrimbor cried in desperation.

“I am sorry if I gave you hope where there was none,” Galadriel told him, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was not my intention. I will marry Celeborn, I want to marry Celeborn, and that is final.”

“Him…” Celebrimbor sounded like a tortured man and he paced back and forth for a moment before returning to stand before her. “Can you tell me in all honesty that there was never a moment where you believed you could love me?” His eyes were quick, frantic, boring into her own as if he hoped to find doubt there, but she had no doubt.

“What good would it do you to know?” Galadriel asked him. “Why torture yourself? Celebrimbor, you are handsome, kind, accomplished…any woman would be fortunate to wed you.”

“I don’t want any woman! I want you!” He exclaimed with such conviction that it startled her. “Tell me, Artanis! I need to know!”

“There were moments, yes, where I believed I could have loved you,” she said with a sigh, still firmly believing that it would be better for him not to know. “You can offer me things I want but Celeborn offers me what I need. I may have, for a few brief moments, believed I could love you, but I have always known that I do love Celeborn.” 

Celebrimbor strode away and back again, his face contorted in agony, tears streaming down his face now and he reached up to wipe them away, embarrassed. “Why do you…” he was torn, both grief-stricken and furious, “why do you throw your life away in Doriath, throw your virtue away on that…”

“My virtue?” Galadriel rounded on him, fuming, her patience worn out and her face burning with anger. Celebrimbor seemed to have realized his mistake and, regretting it, he made to apologize.

“Artanis I…” he stammered, his hands held out in a gesture of peace but she was having none of it.

“My name is Galadriel,” she seethed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Your real name…” he fumbled, looking heartbroken, “not the one he gave you.”

“Galadriel is my real name,” she ground out from between clenched teeth. “And who are you to care or comment upon what I do with my virtue or who I give it to? It is none of your business, and none of anyone else’s business. It isn’t even Celeborn’s business. It is my business what I will and will not do and with whom! My value, my worth, who I am has nothing to do with my virtue!” Celebrimbor had flinched at Celeborn’s name and he retaliated now out of hurt.

“And what kind of life will you have with Celeborn of the trees!” He spat the name like venom. “He is…he is…a savage, a forest lord, backwards, ignorant…” None of it was true and he knew it. He would never be able to forget the moment he had met Celeborn, just as she could not forget the moment she had met him. He had been like a blade: deadly yet refined, like a gorge in winter, savage, and desolate, and beautiful. He had wielded words like weapons with the sparse efficiency of one who knew his own power and did not fear to use it. One could not meet Celeborn and forget him. But the pain in Celebrimbor’s heart would not allow him to speak the truth and so he used his words to hurt her, to make her feel as he felt. 

“My father will come for the Silmaril one day!” He cried. “He will find a way. The oath will not sleep! Celeborn will stay in his caves as doom comes upon him and he will drag you down into that abyss at his side! What can he offer you save death and ruin? He will not leave Doriath! If you marry him then your curse will be his destruction! They will slaughter him on the throne and they will plait their braids with locks of his silver hair just as they took the silver scalps of the Teleri! They will make you watch as they gut him and hack his body to bits! And if his child is in your belly then may Ilúvatar himself help you, for they will slaughter you too! Do not deny that you have seen it! I know you have! Choose a better life! Let us go over the mountains, found our own kingdom, escape the grasp of Morgoth and his dark doings…”

“I have chosen,” Galadriel said, her voice low and dangerous, having had enough, her entire body trembling, tears yet unshed in her eyes, “and I have chosen him. I will always choose him. I have never. I do not. I never will choose you. Now you will remove yourself from this kingdom and you will never return under penalty of imprisonment.”

“Galadriel, I…” Celebrimbor stammered, tears flowing freely from his eyes as he tried to take back his words.

“Do you not know that my brother and my dearest friend have just died? And now you put this on me! Get out,” she hissed, her eyes flashing, “and never show your face to me again nor speak a single word to me or I shall cut out your tongue! Go back to Nargothrond. Go!” She screamed and he did, fleeing. 

It was not sadness that came over her now but fury and Galadriel took up a vase, hurling it against the wall where it broke, trembling in rage. She half wanted to pursue Celebrimbor, to derogate him further but instead she screamed, letting everything she felt, everything she feared flow out of her, hurling glass trinkets against the wall until the anger was spent and she collapsed upon her bed.

*****

It was spring again and with the spring came an abundance of white honeysuckle bursting to life on the slender limbs of bushes like silver sparks of fireworks in the night sky. Leaves unfurled themselves on trees with all of the beauty and coquettish grace of young debutants and the soft grass seemed to be a particularly vibrant shade of green this year. Great, flamboyantly pink magnolias bloomed outside the gates of Menegroth, their irresistibly rich floral fragrance rising into the air, and the apricot trees had already begun to yield their little golden fruits.

All of the world seemed to have opened like an oyster and within that oyster, unlooked for, was a pearl, for Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian had returned, her firm and gentle footsteps carrying her over that verdant green grass and beneath the canopy of fresh leaves and new flowers. And, at her side walked Beren, alive, and well, and breathing, just as he had years before when she had first brought him to her father’s gates.

They passed over the clover and by the guards who stood in amazement unsure of whether this was some apparition signifying the end was nigh or some ghost come to haunt them. Unhindered they passed within the city and all who saw them were glad and fearful, for never before had Námo been moved to mercy. 

Lúthien’s arrival was like the rising of the sun for as she entered into Thingol’s dark and shadowy hall the darkness was banished, fleeing before her as night flees before the rising sun, and just as she had freed the slaves that Sauron had imprisoned, so did she free Menegroth from the chains of shadow and death, casting them off as she went, her entire body glowing with a light so brilliant that even the Silmaril could not have hoped to rival it and Varda herself would have stood in awe for Lúthien seemed to blaze with the ether of a thousand stars, an entire galaxy borne in her eyes, gray as the twilight.

At the touch of her hand the spring waters flowed once more in silver fountains that had lain dry, the flowers and plants that had wilted stood to attention with renewed life, the golden orb of the sun once more began her trek across the enchanted ceiling, and as she came before her father’s throne, Thingol raised his eyes, the Silmaril he had cradled in his hands falling to the floor forgotten, and beheld his daughter as the coming of the sun. 

Without hesitation, without any grudge, or hostility, or resentment, she drew her father up from his throne and into her arms where his bitter winter melted like snow in sunlight, giving way to a new spring, and Thingol wept with joy, kindness and repentance filling his heart once more. 

But Melian looked upon her daughter and saw not the glory of spring, nor the coming of new life or the hope of renewal, but only the mortality that was woven into the very fabric of Lúthien’s body, like a thread of cotton in a measure of silk, like water in wine, or coal among diamond dust. Lúthien drew back then from her father’s embrace, approaching her mother with a tender smile, one hand upon the gentle swell of her stomach where new life was now growing and, with the other hand she reached out to grasp Melians, saying, “Mother.”

But Melian drew her hand back trembling, as though she could not bear to touch her child, turning her eyes from her daughter’s. For she had looked into Lúthien’s eyes and known in that moment of all that had passed, reading there the judgment of Námo: that a parting beyond the end of the world had come between them. She paused for an instant, as if in indecision, but then suddenly turned and fled the hall, the darkness following her. And Lúthien stood still, her hand outstretched for a moment longer in hope before at last that hope failed, and she let it fall to her side.

*****

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Celeborn heard Lúthien’s voice behind him and turned from the strange species of moss he had been examining on the wall to face his cousin, a warm smile on his face.

“I owe you rather a lot you know,” Lúthien said, lowering herself slowly onto a wooden bench and Celeborn rushed forward to help her. “Oh! There now, we’ve done it!” She said with a little laugh and a gleam in her eye as she sat and leaned back against the bench, sighing and placing a hand over her pregnant belly.

“I’m not keeping score,” Celeborn said with a grin and Lúthien pinched his cheek.

“Of course you’re not,” she said, “because you are a gentleman.”

“How is the baby?” Celeborn asked, eyeing her stomach with a mixture of awe and curiosity. His cousin groaned.

“Energetic,” she said, rolling her eyes and patting her stomach. “You can touch if you’d like.” And Celeborn did, reaching out to place a gentle hand over her belly, his smiled growing broader as he felt the baby’s foot pressing up against his hand, remembering how violently Nimloth had kicked when she was still in Inwen’s belly. 

“I would expect nothing less from your child,” he said and Lúthien grinned, winking at him. 

“How is Galadriel?” She asked him.

“Still in Nargothrond,” he said, “ruling the place, though from the sound of it she would rather not. She went there to put Orodreth back on the throne but he seems reluctant to take it and eager to pass if off to anyone who shows the slightest interest.”

“Oh dear,” Lúthien said. “I am very sorry to hear that. It must be terribly trying for her. You know how frustrated she gets about things.”

“Yes, I know,” Celeborn said with a laugh. 

“Well I hope the two of you shall be married soon enough,” his cousin said. “Then you can have a child too and, oh, don’t do things the way that Galathil did them!” She rolled her eyes. 

“I won’t. I swear it!” Celeborn protested. “We will be married when she returns from Nargothrond.”

“That is good,” Lúthien said, but she paused next, growing concerned and sitting in contemplation for a while before speaking again. In all seriousness,” she said, turning her eyes to him once more, “I am very sorry about everything that has happened between you and my father. I expect people don’t thank you often enough, Celeborn, but it is due to you that this kingdom continues to function. You’ve done far more than anyone would have expected of you. I know what pressure you must be under, what struggles you must be facing. I know how he gets…like that…and I know the Silmaril has only exacerbated it.”

Celeborn nodded, clasping his hands before him. “I must admit,” he confided in her, “I thought of leaving once or twice, of just going out into the wilderness, over the mountains, making a life there with Galadriel, but when I thought about all of the people who depend upon me, and how you were gone, and your father was hardly fit to rule, then I could not find it in my heart to leave them. The thought of them brought me some strength, I think, knowing that they trusted in me, and it made me think what grief your father must feel, knowing they trust him no longer.”

“That is so,” Lúthien said, “and I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am that you stayed. But as for me…” she paused, considering her words carefully. “I hope you won’t think me heartless when you hear me say that I never wanted to be a princess, certainly never a queen.”

“I could never think such a thing of you,” Celeborn told her, smiling, and Lúthien patted his hand. 

“To tell you the truth, Celeborn, I would have been happier had I been born a farmer’s daughter. I would have played in the forest all day, tilled the earth, tended the animals. That…” she suddenly looked as though her mind was very far away for a moment, “that would have really made me happy. I never realized how very unhappy being a princess was making.”

She paused before continuing. “Beren wanted me to come back to Menegroth after our quest for the Silmaril, saying it wasn’t right for an elven princess to wander in the wild. But never was I happier than those months after the quest was finished, before we returned to Menegroth to hunt Carcharoth, when Beren and I were living simply in the wild, off the fruits of our labor, providing for ourselves. I never realized how very much I hated all of this royalty and political business until I left it and went wandering in the wild. Had I met Beren I never would have known, perhaps, what I truly love. I might have spent eternity being someone I hated and fulfilling a role I despised.” 

She reached out, taking her cousin’s hand again, meeting his eyes. “I know you want to ask me to stay, Celeborn, but I cannot. My mind is made up and I must leave. After everything that has happened this place brings me no joy, only sorrow. And, besides what I want is peace, and quiet, and a simple life full of uncomplicated things. I am mortal now after all. My life will be short and I want to spend what time I have left in living on my terms.”

“Of course,” Celeborn said, feeling a strange mixture of emotions: sadness that she would leave and happiness that she could now live as she wished, “if that is your choice then I will respect it and I will be glad for the happiness that you have found.”

“You are simply the best,” Lúthien told him, “do you know that?” Celeborn chuckled and his cousin smiled. 

“I don’t know, however,” he said, teasing her, “if I shall be able to forgive you for shoving me into line as Thingol’s heir. I don’t want to be a king at all.” But Lúthien only laughed gently and shook her raven head.

“Yes you do,” she whispered, clasping his hands and smiling. “Galadriel knows it; ask her. You do want it, to rule, only you just don’t know it yet.”

Celeborn merely rolled his eyes and shook his head but Lúthien laughed long and hard before leaning her head against his shoulder. Celeborn grinned and tousled her dark hair. 

“Do take care of them, my mother and father, as best you can, will you?” She asked him, turning her head and looking up at him. “I know they can be difficult and I know it is a wretched thing to ask of you but they seem to have proven that they cannot be counted upon to take care of themselves and, despite everything that has happened, I do love them, really and truly.”

“Of course Lu,” he said. “You don’t have to ask. Of course I shall.” He felt her nod against his shoulder and a tight knot rose in his throat as he began to sense that the conversation was drawing to a close. He wondered whether he would ever see his cousin again. 

“Well,” she said, almost in response to his thoughts, “I suppose I ought to be leaving now, Beren must have saddled the horses. Will you help me up, cousin?” He stood, offering his arm, which she leaned upon, pulling herself up from the bench. Lúthien was half a Maia and could have stood under her own power well enough, pregnant though she was, but he knew it was because he had wanted to help her that she had let him. “Do be kind enough to give my love to Galadriel, cousin,” she said.

“Even if you do not return,” Celeborn told her, squeezing her hands, “please send your child to visit so that I may meet him or her.”

“Him,” Lúthien said with a wink. 

“You know?” He asked her and she nodded before she turned, making her way across the courtyard. She had almost left before he spoke again. 

“Lu,” he said, and she turned back for a moment, looking at him expectantly, curiously, her eyes bright and happy. “I really am going to miss you, truly,” he said, his voice cracking, tears filling his eyes. 

“Oh Celeborn,” she said, rushing forward to embrace him tightly, “I will miss you too, so very much.”

*****

“War comes to Beleriand once more,” Thingol murmured, his fingers to his chin, his eyes quick and curious, “and once more the refugees flee to the safety of Doriath.”

But what strange refugees these were that Beleg, accompanied by Nellas, led forward now through Thingol’s hall, a child, a young boy barely as tall as Celeborn’s waist, and with him two old men. Celeborn had seen old dwarves before, back in the days when they had lived in Menegroth, but never before had he seen an elderly man. There was something unsettling about it, watching them creep forward on legs stiff with age, their skin pulled tight across frail bones. They seemed so near to death and seeing them made him all the more aware of the fate that Beren and Lúthien now faced. It was enough to chill him to his bones. He could not even begin to imagine what it must be like, feeling your own body crumble about you.

“His Majesty Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, King of the Sindar, High King of Beleriand!” Galathil cried as the visitors approached the king’s throne. 

“Your Majesty,” the younger prince said then, addressing the King, “Túrin son of Húrin and of Morwen, of the House of Hador with Gethron and Grithnir, loyal servants of the same.” 

At their introduction they made to bow but Thingol rose, holding out his hand and said, “that is not necessary, I assure you.”

“Thank you Your Majesty,” one of the old men, with long, gray, greasy hair, said. He was clothed in threadbare pants and a shirt, wearing a worn and dirty leather jerkin and carrying weapons so dull they seemed hardly fit for service. His voice was shallow and he made a curious wheezing noise when he spoke, pausing as if to collect his breath before he continued. Celeborn frowned, wondering why his voice sounded so frail, and that was when the old man began to cough violently.

“Some water if you please,” the other man, who was holding the child’s hand, said to one of the wardens who accompanied them. Water was brought and, after the visitors had drunk, the first man began to speak again.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am Grithnir, a servant of the House of Hador, and I have been sent to you by Morwen of the House of Bëor, wife of Húrin Thalion, whose son this is. On her behalf I beg that you take her son, young Túrin, into your custody lest he fall victim to the plague that killed his sister, or be enslaved by the Easterlings who have overrun Hithlum at Morgoth’s bidding. Please sire,” he entreated Thingol, “the war rages fiercely in the North. I beg of you, have mercy on this child!” Having so said, he made to prostrate himself before Thingol in desperation but the march wardens once more pulled him to his feet, assuring him that this was not necessary, and Thingol rose, holding out his hand in a gesture of friendship, bidding Grithnir rise.

“I beg you not bow before me, Grithnir,” Thingol addressed him, “for the brave deeds of Húrin, father of Túrin are known to us here in Doriath and ever shall this kingdom be a friend to those who bear kinship with Beren Erchamion, who I esteem most greatly and who is my son by way of marriage to my beloved daughter Lúthien. But I beg you tell me, if you have the strength, the name of your companion here and of your journey as well as the events that have occurred in the north.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Grithnir replied, wheezing again, “only…if it is not too much trouble could some chairs be brought? For we have journeyed a long way and Gethron,” he gestured to the other old man, “and I have not the youth of young Túrin here.”

“Of course, my apologies,” Thingol said as the men frantically tried to assure him that there was nothing he need apologize for. Meanwhile, the boy clutched at his guardian’s soiled jerkin, standing half behind him and gazing out at them all not with curiosity, which would have been usual for a child, but with something akin to suspicion, and Celeborn thought it strange to see such a thing in one so young. The chairs were brought and they all sat. 

“If it please Your Majesty,” the other man, Gethron, began, “my companion Grithnir has been suffering from some illness since we began our journey and it has become somewhat difficult for him to speak. So I will tell you the tale, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course,” Thingol said, gesturing that the man should continue and Gethron did as he was bid.

“I do not believe there are any words I can say that would adequately express to you the horrors that are taking place in the North,” Gethron said, his voice filled with sadness and his eyes with worry. “The fighting was fierce and even those of us too young or too old to participate in battle suffered the effects of it, for the land was so ravaged by marching armies and the horrors of war that all of our crops were burned and the land was made unsuitable for farming so that many of the people starved. And then…I suppose it is not a problem that elves must face, but armies often carry with them pestilence and sickness so that many of our people died of plague. Then a plague came to us on the wind from Angbad as well so that nearly everyone fell ill. My lord Túrin’s young sister, Urwen, though we called her Lalaith for her laughter, died though she was but a young child of three years.” The man’s eyes welled with tears and he reached up to wipe them away. 

“We thought we would lose Túrin as well,” he said, “for he fell grieviously ill, but fate, it seemed has spared him. And yet our horrors did not end there, for the Easterlings flooded into Hithlum and took many of our people as slaves, stealing what food we had left, raping the women, and putting our children in shackles. For a while my Lady, Morwen, has been able to hold them off by spreading rumors that she is a witch, but she thought that it would not be long until her ruse was discovered and Túrin taken captive. So she devised this plan to send him to safety with the elves, which is why we have come, but our journey was perilous and we became ensnared with confusion when we reached the girdle, wandering in circles and eating what precious little food we had left until we were discovered by Beleg and his friend, Nellas.”

“I am very sorry,” Thingol said with great sympathy, “for your plight and you may rest assured that I will welcome Túrin, even as though he were my own son, for I know most keenly the fear that Morwen must have felt at the prospect of losing a child and, for the love of Lúthien and Beren, I would gladly aid you humans in whatever way I might. Therefore, I proclaim that from this day forward Menegroth is to be Túrin’s home until such time as he may wish to wander elsewhere, and he will be treated here as though he were my own son and given guidance by my most trusted kin and subjects so that he may grow to be wise and strong. What say you, Túrin?” Thingol addressed the child with a smile. “Is this acceptable to you?”

But the boy said nothing, only sitting in his chair, kicking at the floor and refusing to raise his eyes, a sour look upon his face. “Young master!” Grithnir chided him. “The King of Doriath has addressed you. Can you not do him the honor of an answer?” 

The boy looked up at Thingol with the same suspicion he had shown earlier and at last, reluctantly, goaded by his servants, he stood, sighing, raising his eyes to Thingol with reluctance and saying, “my thanks, Your Majesty.” It was all he said. Then he returned to his seat, kicking at the ground once more and staring at his feet. 

Grithnir stumbled to his feet, worried, bowing his head low, his hands clasped together, saying, “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, my Lord is but eight years of age, a mere child, and he does not understand how he ought to comport himself nor does he fully understand the predicament that he is in!” 

But Thingol only waved his hand, urging the man to forget the child’s insolence and said, “I assure you it is no matter and no offense has been taken. I too am a father and I know the many joys, and the many troubles that a child can bring. Children will be children after all.” He smiled once more at Túrin and, as he did so, Melian bent to whisper in the King’s ear. 

Thingol turned then, his gaze settling upon Nellas, who stood at Beleg’s side and he said, “Nellas, the Queen has seen fit to inform me that you have some desire to raise a child.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nellas said, stepping forward and taking a knee before Thingol’s throne. “Yet, long have I feared that I will have no children of my own.”

“Then, if it is agreeable to you,” Thingol said, “I would like for you to take Túrin into your care, to raise him as if you were his mother and to teach him all that you know of the land, of our language, and of history and lore. For there is, I believe, none more qualified for this task than you. And Beleg,” he said, turning to the warden who stood at Nellas’s side, “I would ask that you teach Túrin all that you know of the art of warfare and raise him up with the knowledge of a soldier so that he shall always be able to defend himself and those he holds dear.”

Both Nellas and Beleg gave their assent and the King turned once more to Grithnir and Gethron. “I beg you rest here,” he said, “and eat and drink as much as you like until such time as you are able to return to your mistress. I will send my messengers with you to see if she may be persuaded to seek safety in Doriath and we shall see what can be done to assist your people, for in Doriath the House of Bëor and the House of Hador are accounted elf-friends and Doriath will honor that alliance.”

*****

Footnote: Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter! I am really starting to wrap up this story now since there are only 7 chapters left. Chapter 39 will be the last and there will be a short epilogue (Chapter 40). I thought the epilogue might be a good opportunity for some questions so I will be doing a massive author’s note answering any meta questions you all may have. Basically that means questions that pertain to the story as a whole.

For example: Why did you not do anything with Gondolin? Why did you choose this particular version of Gil-Galad’s parentage? You can also ask questions that pertain to my writing process in general. For example: How do you keep track of all the events? Or you can ask personal questions. For example: What is your personal opinion of what Tolkien wrote about…? Or, who is your least favorite character, most favorite character, what books do you like, etc? Please mark these questions as [for chapter 40].

Also, if you have some time, please let me know what you think of Celeborn so far. Thanks!


	33. A Kingdom Divided

  
**A Kingdom Divided**  
In Cavern's Shade: 33rd Chapter

*****

"A house divided against itself cannot stand."

_\- Abraham Lincoln_

*****

**Author’s Note:** Hey guys, just so you know, conflicts that were introduced in parts I and II will definitely be wrapped up by the end of this book. But, since this will eventually be a multi-book story, I am introducing and foreshadowing events and conflicts for the next story in part III, so don’t expect everything from part III to be concluded in In Cavern’s Shade. I just don’t want you to be disappointed when some of these things aren’t concluded by the end of the story. BUT, the long awaited wedding will happen soon! Not this chapter, but very soon in fact!

 **Character profile:** Beren and Lúthien

Beren and Lúthien were both very challenging for me to write and I really had a lot of doubts and misgivings as I was starting to write their love story. There are not very many fics about them. Also, I was initially not very fond of their love story and the first time I read it I didn’t really understand what they saw in each other. I know Marnie, who I really respect as a fanfic author, and who has the most reviewed Celeborn/Galadriel fic (deservedly so) stopped writing her fic specifically because she didn’t like the Beren/Lúthien story and didn’t have any interest in writing it. So basically I was stuck where I knew I couldn’t finish Cavern’s Shade without writing the Beren/Lúthien story because it is too important to ignore, but I didn’t really want to write it. 

I have always really liked Lúthien. I don’t think she gets as much credit as she deserves in the fandom. She does some pretty badass stuff that gets overlooked. For starters she does what she wants to do and she doesn’t let anyone stop her. She blatantly disobeys her father by running away to help Beren. Then she just marches up to Sauron’s fortress and, in Tolkien’s words, “declares her power.” How cool is that? So cool. She singlehandedly defeats Sauron and sends him running back to Morgoth with his tail between his legs like a dog. Then they go to Angbad and (lets be honest here Beren doesn’t really do anything helpful) she enchants Morgoth and they take a Silmaril from him. They almost get away with two. The Feanorians have been trying to do this for CENTURIES but Lúthien just walks in and takes that Silmaril like it is no problem at all. And then, the coolest thing about her is that despite all the pressures she is facing from her parents and even from death, she still makes her own choices, decides her own fate, and has so much agency as a person. Yet she is still really kind-hearted, generous, and loving to everyone. 

So I knew when I was writing Lúthien that I really wanted her to just be the best person you can imagine and have internal beauty as well as external. She doesn’t hold grudges against people, she forgives instantaneously, she is always willing to help others, and she really cares about other people. In that way she is sort of a static character and yet Galadriel learns so much compassion from her example and friendship. But I hope she became dynamic at the end because I wanted to kind of examine the various pressures she must have been facing. I didn’t want her to be perfect. I wanted her to experience intense feelings and doubts like every other character, despite her near seeming innate perfection. 

In my mind, she never really knew what she wanted until she met Beren and then, once she found what she wanted, she knew it right away, had confidence in it, and was willing to fight her hardest for it. She is just completely fearless. But I also imagined that she had a little bit of naïveté here, that she expected that because she is always happy for other peoples’ happiness, she thought everyone would be happy for her too. It was kind of a nasty shock for her to find out that other people weren’t as accepting as she herself is.

She kind of ends up having her innocence shattered in a way by the reactions of her parents to the Beren situation and by the way that Dairon betrays her. Nevertheless, her goodness prevails and she is able to forgive them, even if Melian can’t forgive her. I think Lúthien a lot of times put her own good aside for the good of others, but in the end she is able to choose what is good for her and have that for herself.

The crux of my problem with the Beren/Lúthien story lay with Beren because when I just read about him from the books he didn’t really do anything for me. Still, there is not very much deep information about his personality. Tolkien was, somewhat obviously, trying to imitate these kind of epic old-fashioned romances, which have really static one-dimensional characters and he did a good job of that and I think he achieved the purpose of what he was writing for. This isn’t to say that Tolkien can’t develop a romance or write about feelings. I think the way he writes how Eowyn and Faramir fall in love obviously shows he is capable of that. I just think that with the Beren/Lúthien story that isn’t really his goal. 

On the other hand, the purpose I am writing for and the advent of examining a character’s thoughts and emotions is a lot newer and more modern component of stories than the ones that Tolkien was trying to imitate. If you read 18th century literature like Fielding’s Tom Jones you really aren’t going to find in depth explorations of the character’s motives, thoughts and feelings. It isn’t really until the 19th and especially the 20th century that this becomes part of literature. 

But I thought there must be something there beneath the surface I could imagine that would also fit with canon and that I could bring to the surface. Basically I started thinking about what sort of person Lúthien would fall in love with. And that’s where my Beren came from. I think he has a lot of her traits in that he is really kind and cares about people a lot. He is genuinely a really good person. But Beren has also had a lot of freedom in his life that Lúthien doesn’t and I think that is what really attracts her to him in this story. I mean the Lay of Leithian does mean “release from bondage” after all. She always was kind of living her life on other people’s terms but Beren was living his life on his terms and she saw that, learned from that example, and decided she wanted that for herself.

I also didn’t want to make Beren like this epic hero or tragic hero because I felt that would make it difficult to identify with him or feel anything for him. I wanted him just to be very down to earth, kind of a strange guy, but really endearing, which is kind of what I imagined a human in the elf world might be like. Also, I thought this provided a much more appealing explanation for his wandering around as an outlaw all dirty and shaggy than making him like Túrin (gross). Beren just doesn’t care if his horse is lame, or his armor is crap, or his hair is all uncut, or his clothes are raggedy. He just cares about making sure that everyone is ok and making sure that he has the things he needs to really be happy and make others happy. I thought this is really the kind of person Lúthien would value. I started writing him like this and I think it made him really approachable. Celeborn, Finrod, and Galadriel really took a liking to Beren and recognized his bravery right away, unlike what you will see with Túrin in this chapter…

Basically, I think you can have horrible things happen to you, as both Beren and Túrin did, but you can either choose to use those experiences to grow yourself and make you a better and stronger person (as Beren did) or you can take it out on other people and hurt them (as Turin…well, you’ll see). They are kind of foils in that way.

*****

“Good!” Celeborn cried, parrying Galathil’s blow with his axe. Galathil whooped with glee and took another swing at his brother, which Celeborn dodged, spinning about. “Watch your back!” He cried and Galathil was quick to turn, dancing on the balls of his feet bringing his sword up to block Celeborn’s blow. He had been a little slow that time, but he had improved very much in the few years that they had been practicing, and Celeborn was certain that his brother could spar now with most of the march wardens and win or at least draw in a bout with perhaps half of them.

Now it was Galathil who was on the offensive, coming at his brother with quick, efficient strikes, his footfalls sure and steady, his breathing even and regulated, his eyes glimmering with mischief. Celeborn laughed, but it was harder to parry the blows than he would have liked to admit and it took him longer than usual to counter his brother’s offensive. Finally he managed to catch Galathil off guard, locking his axe together with his brother’s sword, and the brothers broke apart, grinning, breathing hard.

“What’s the matter, Celeborn?” Galathil asked cheekily. “Need a little rest do you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Celeborn replied, shooting his brother a playful glare, and the two moved to sit on the edge of one of the fountains at the edge of the training area, where they dipped copper cups into the clear, cool water, drinking heavily.

“And here, 10 years ago you were telling me that there was not a fighting bone in your body,” Celeborn panted. It was a very hot summer and the rigorous exercise was certainly not improving that. His breeches were soaked through, clinging to him, making it hard to move. His shirt was also completely drenched with sweat and he pulled it off, throwing the sopping thing on the ground. The sounds of metal ringing against metal as the other wardens sparred and trained echoed about the spacious courtyard.

“I have a very strong motivation to improve,” Galathil replied. “For Inwen, for Nimloth, I believe I could learn to do about anything. Then again, the anticipated joy of one day beating you is a strong motivator as well.” Galathil grinned and Celeborn threw his cup of water on him. 

“Hey!” Galathil yelped and Celeborn laughed. 

“You’re already wet with sweat,” the older of the brothers replied. “I’m doing you a service really.”

“Oh is that so?” Galathil cried, dipping his own cup in the water once more, putting his older brother in an arm lock so that he could pour the entire thing over his silver head. Celeborn spluttered and broke free of his brother’s grasp, wiping his face and laughing with glee.

“I should have known the two of you would be up to no good!” They heard a familiar voice say.

“Nellas! A surprise to see you here today!” Galathil cried, turning about, and the curly-haired Sindarin maiden smiled and raised a hand to them in greeting. Celeborn, drenched with sweat and water, turned towards her to see she had just entered with Beleg and Túrin, who was by now a young man full grown. It was unusual to see him in Menegroth nowadays, not that Celeborn particularly minded his absence, for Túrin spent a great deal of time on the marches of Doriath with Beleg.

“Indeed!” She replied. “I have no liking for your stone walls and rooves that close me in, nor the hustle and bustle of so many people hurrying here and there with little care for others, but Túrin wished to practice with Beleg today and so I have brought him.”

“The roof may be stone,” Galathil replied, “but how could you possibly imagine it to be so? For with Melian’s enchantment it seems so like the real sky that I cannot tell the difference.”

“You cannot, perhaps, Your Royal Impertinence, Galathil Galadhonion” Nellas said, giving Galathil a cheeky smile, “but I can tell at once! And the queen will have to forgive me for saying that I don’t like it a single bit. Elves are meant to be out of doors among our friends, the trees, and all of our animal friends, not holed up in caves.”

“Oh, come here to insult the people of Menegroth then, have you?” Galathil joked with her but Nellas only rolled her eyes.

“With a child near 30 and you still act like an elfling, imagine that!” Nellas replied with a grin and Beleg snorted in laughter before he decided to have a go at Celeborn. 

“For Varda’s sake, Celeborn, is it impossible for you to keep a shirt on?” He asked the prince in a cheerful voice.

“I have an allergy to shirts,” Celeborn said with mock sternness, pointing a finger at his friend.

“An elf with an allergy,” Beleg laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “who would ever have thought it? Galadriel isn’t here for you to show off to you know.”

“Celeborn shows off whenever he has the opportunity, regardless of who or who is not present,” Galathil quipped, earning him an elbow in the ribs from his brother, and Beleg and Nellas both burst into laughter while Túrin stared at them, deeply unamused.

“Aiming for a little something on the side are you, Celeborn?” Beleg taunted his friend. 

“Oi! I’m not Mablung am I?” Celeborn laughed. “Never a chance!”

“Perhaps not with Galadriel,” Beleg teased, “but do not forget how long we have been friends. I remember some of the things that you used to get up to back in the day!”

“Not anymore!” Celeborn shot back, grinning. “I am a changed man!”

“Yet still a half naked one, I see,” Beleg laughed. “You would certainly draw Saeros’s ire. You know how much he detests nakedness, excess drinking, and anything else he deems ‘immoral.’” Beleg mimicked Saeros’s sour face and Celeborn snorted with laughter. 

“I don’t need to do anything to draw Saeros’s ire,” Celeborn said. “My very existence seems to irk him.”

“Indeed,” Beleg shrugged, jerking his head in the direction of Túrin, “you’re not the only one who has drawn his ire.”

“Is that so?” Celeborn asked, furrowing his brow with interest, not that he was truly surprised. Saeros had a deep-seated loathing for all things new and different and Túrin, aside from being both new and different, was also extraordinarily unlikeable, at least to Celeborn. It was, perhaps, the first time he had ever found himself sympathizing with Saeros’s sentiments. 

“Yes, and if you had come to the council meeting you would have known,” Beleg replied. “That is the other reason that we are here in Menegroth today.”

“Thingol gave me the day off,” Celeborn said. “Galathil needed minding and there was no other adult present.” That earned him an elbow in the ribs from Galathil this time. Beleg grinned. 

“Well,” the warden said, “Túrin is now, officially, a member of the king’s council.”

“Is that so?” Celeborn asked, a bit surprised in truth, for Thingol had said nothing to him of it. Then again, there were more and more things that Thingol seemed to be keeping secret, not just from Celeborn, but from everyone else as well. “You have my congratulations, Túrin,” he said to the young man but he only nodded his acceptance of the compliment. 

“It is,” Nellas replied for him, “and a very great honor.” She beamed with happiness and, though Celeborn did not care so very much for Túrin, he was happy, at least, that Nellas was glad, for he knew how much she cared for the young man and sometimes, he suspected, her feelings were a little less like caring and a little more like love. But of course he had kept that to himself, for he knew what Beleg’s feelings for her were and he did not wish to further injure his friend by pointing it out, though he suspected Beleg may have surmised as much already, for the warden was very keenly perceptive of the feelings of others.

And yet, despite his happiness for Nellas, Celeborn wondered whether or not it was truly wise for Thingol to appoint Túrin to the council, for it seemed the boy had little to contribute and, while he did lend a bit of much-needed diversity to the heavily Sindarin, and entirely elven council, there may perhaps have been better ways that Thingol could have gone about making this appointment, ways that would not have angered the more staunchly conservative members of the council such as Saeros. 

Celeborn sighed and raised his axe to Galathil, ready to begin their next bout, but his heart felt considerably heavier than before. It seemed to him that the king’s motivation had a good deal do with him trying to make amends for how he had acted to Beren at first. And, while Celeborn could appreciate the King’s desire to make things right between himself and those he had wronged, he feared it would only lead him down a path fraught with further complications and troubles. It was the reason Celeborn had refused to allow Venessiel to pay him back the money she had stolen from him: he had feared it would only draw her into deeper trouble. And now he feared the same for Thingol. Sometimes it was better to let things lie.

*****

Celeborn groaned and stretched, wondering in his half-asleep haze why he had awoken when it was clearly not yet evening. He blinked, observing the world through sleep-blurred, half-closed eyes and turned over with a grunt, suddenly surprised by the fresh scent of Calla lilies that greeted his nose and the warm body that his arm had fallen over. Confused, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and then opened them, blinking, trying to get his bearings.

Then he heard a soft laugh and felt familiar arms reaching out for him. “G…Galadriel, you’ve returned?” He managed to stammer, a sudden feeling of joy overwhelming him as his eyes cleared of their sleepy haze and he propped himself up on his elbows atop her, brushing her hair away from her face and gazing down lovingly into that beautiful face that he had missed so very much. Galadriel looked up at him smiling. He could feel the presence of their blood bond very strongly now, washing over him like waves of warmth.

“I arrived a few hours ago,” she whispered, “but I have just now come to your bed for I had to speak with Thingol first, before he left the city. I thought to surprise you. And were you surprised?” Celeborn wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his head in her chest against the soft cotton of her nightdress, nodding. Galadriel laughed softly. “And are you happy?” She asked, feeling him nod again. She smiled, suspecting that he was near tears and was too embarrassed to show it, and ran her hands through his silver hair, which had grown long once more. 

She laughed in surprise as Celeborn sat up, wearing a broad grin and wrapping an arm about her shoulders, cradling her head in his other hand, and maneuvering her so that she lay beneath him now, her hair like a ribbon of sunlight across the pillows. “I missed you very…” she murmured but her words were cut off by his lips against hers and she opened her mouth to him as she relaxed into his embrace, her breath growing shallow as he moved lower, his hands and mouth wandering past her breasts, across the plane of her abdomen.

“…very much!” She gasped, finishing her sentence, throwing her head back into the pillows, her breathing growing rapid and shallow as her back arched involuntarily and she gasped again, clutching frantically at the sheets, digging her fingers into them. He parted her legs and she closed her eyes, groaning and moving to wrap her fingers in the long silver hair that was spread now across the smooth skin of her thighs and abdomen. He was being very enthusiastic in welcoming her home, not that she minded at all, of course. 

“Don’t pull my hair,” she heard him murmur in a warning tone and she laughed. 

“I won’t,” she replied, biting her lip, her eyes fluttering closed again.

“You always do,” he said, but continued gleefully nonetheless.

“So do you,” she gasped out, her sentence punctuated by a moan and she gave up on speech entirely. She had longed for this reunion just as much as he had and they relished in reacquainting themselves with each other; there would be time for words later. Afterwards, both sated at long last, she lay in his embrace, basking in the warmth of his body, running her fingers across his chest. She sighed, contented, and tilted her face up so that she could kiss his chin.

“Celebrimbor was there,” she said and Celeborn, his eyes closed, grinned. 

“You didn’t say anything in your letters about him,” he said.

“I had worried it might upset you,” she replied but Celeborn merely shook his head.

“The poor fellow,” he said. “I pity him. It must be a uniquely terrible curse – to love you but never have you.” He opened one eye.

“He could find someone else easily enough, only he is too stubborn,” she said with a scowl and Celeborn reached out to pat her head. 

“Mercy for everyone except Celebrimbor, Galadriel?” He asked and she scowled again.

“He attempted to convince me to run away to the east with him,” she said and Celeborn smiled. “He tried my patience most sorely and said a number of ungracious things.”

“Bold of him,” Celeborn murmured, “you have to admit he has gumption,” and Galadriel began to tickle him.

“I had thought you might show a little bit of jealousy,” she complained as Celeborn caught her hands in his, stopping the assault she had begun on his person. 

“Oh is that what you want?” He asked, feigning innocence.

“It’s romantic, Celeborn,” she told him with a grin. He shifted, pulling her atop him so that she straddled his hips, clothed in naught but her long golden hair.

“You shall have to forgive me my laziness then,” he said. “I can think of a thousand things I would rather be doing than marching off to Nargothrond to challenge Celebrimbor to a duel.”

“He has returned to Gondolin now,” Galadriel said. 

“Well I shan’t be marching there either,” Celeborn informed her with a cheeky grin. Galadriel smiled at him.

“It seems like you’ve been busy enough here in Doriath,” she said.

“Too busy,” Celeborn replied, the grin disappearing from his face. 

“Thingol?” She asked and Celeborn sighed as though some great weight had settled about his shoulders. 

“I cannot help but think that he has no regard for me at all anymore,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “He says he took Túrin in out of regret at the way he treated Beren at first, and I believe him, but sometimes…” he paused and Galadriel knew he was entrusting her with something very near to his heart. “Sometimes I think he did it to punish me, to make me jealous, to try to force my obedience.”

“You have been nothing but obedient to him,” Galadriel replied gently. “You dutifully assisted him through Lúthien’s death, ruling when he was unable. Indeed, if it were not for you this entire kingdom might very well have fallen and crumbled these past ten years. He had no reason to fault you.”

“It is not reason that drives him,” Celeborn said as Galadriel, concern in her eyes, pushed his hair behind his ear and placed a comforting hand on his chest. “He was overjoyed at Lúthien’s return, yes, but he feels abandoned by everyone, by Finwë and Olwë who left him here so long ago, by Melian who has spurned him, by Mablung and Beleg who left to fight in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and have only recently returned, by the people who no longer trust him, by Lúthien who can bear to live here no longer. He has not forgotten that I drew my knife on him and he has not forgiven me for it either, though he did try, but once he had the Silmaril in hand all hope of reconciliation was lost. It has twisted his mind, brought his worst faults to the forefront: his paranoia, his pride, his grudges. He thinks that the people he loves are turning against him and he fluctuates between desperation to win us back and the desire to punish us for what he sees as desertion.” 

“You frighten him, Celeborn,” Galadriel murmured, meeting his gaze.

“Frighten him,” Celeborn laughed, shaking his head. “What do you mean?” Galadriel shifted, laying one arm across his chest, tracing the muscles of his arm furthest from her while she nestled her head against his shoulder. 

“Ohhh,” she said with a grin, squeezing his biceps, “have you been putting in some extra time training while I’ve been gone?” 

“I’m teaching Galathil to fight,” he told her, “but what were you saying?”

Galadriel struggled to draw her attention back to her earlier train of thought. “I mean,” she said, “that you are everything he thinks he should be but is too afraid to become. But more than anything he fears failure and rejection, most especially by those he loves the best. If he renews his relationship with you then there is the possibility that it would fail again, that once more you would reject him. He cannot bear the thought of it and so he turns to Túrin instead. He is young, malleable. Thingol has not invested thousands of years of love and affection into him the way he did with you and Lúthien. He sees you as too much of a risk, but Túrin poses hardly any risk at all.”

“And what if I were to go to Thingol and try to solve things myself?” Celeborn asked her. Galadriel raised her eyebrows. 

“You know,” she said, drawing circles on his chest with her finger, “that won’t work or you would have done it already. He would just see it as an affront, an attack, and he would react accordingly.”

“No wonder he and Melian can hardly stand each other any longer,” Celeborn grumbled and Galadriel sighed. 

“How is she?” She asked. “You sent hardly any news of her.”

“There has been hardly any news of her,” Celeborn said. “Nobody sees her anymore. She spends all of her time locked in her chambers or else wandering the forests alone. Her handmaidens whisper that on most days she refuses to leave her bed.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Galadriel replied. “She does not…” she paused, trying to think of the right words, “she does not feel things the same way that we do.”

“No,” Celeborn murmured, “she doesn’t. But she and Thingol were due to leave for the Greenwood on holiday this afternoon. He is hoping, I believe, that it will soothe her soul to be away from the city for a while.”

“Oh, and are you acting in his stead?” Galadriel asked, a playful grin spreading against his face.

“I am,” Celeborn grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes, “and there are numerous things that I am considering commanding you to do.” But Galadriel only laughed and slipped from his grasp, descending the stairs and going to her wardrobe, pulling on a shift and her dressing gown.

“Going somewhere?” Celeborn called down to her, sitting up, and then rising, standing at the edge of the floor of his bedchamber and looking down to where she stood in the center of the room below. 

“To the baths,” she said with a smile, plaiting her hair into a sloppy braid, “which is where you should go too. It is almost evening now and we shall have to be on time for this banquet.” She rolled her eyes. “And you ought to put your clothes on. What if Paniel were to walk in and see you standing up there?”

“Then she would be a very fortunate lady,” Celeborn said with a laugh, hands on his hips.

“By Yavanna’s grace…” Galadriel swore, rolling her eyes again, but she was grinning. “Put your clothes on, go to the baths, and get ready, Celeborn. This feast is in honor of my return after all.” 

Celeborn grinned down at her. “A feast in your honor awaits you up here too,” he said. 

“Stop it now!” Galadriel exclaimed, struggling to control her laughter. “You know I would rather spend the entire evening in bed with you just as I have spent the entire day, but we really must attend. It would be very conspicuous if the guest of honor was missing.”

“Indeed,” Celeborn said, seeming to acquiesce, pulling on a pair of breeches and descending the stairs. Fortunately it was not until then that Paniel entered, just as sour as ever. 

“Paniel, could you please have our clothes laid out when we return?” Galadriel asked her, directing her as to which clothes she meant. 

“I could,” Paniel said with disdain. “I don’t particularly want to. Everyone else is going to the feast and you’re leaving me here alone.”

“Odd. I would have thought you hated feasts,” Galadriel said, “all that happiness and merriment doesn’t seem like it would suit you.” She thought she had heard Paniel snort in laughter but the girl disguised it behind a cough. Nevertheless, when they returned she had done as they asked and they dressed, preparing for the party. 

“Might I presume that this is some new Noldorin fashion you learned of in Nargothrond?” Celeborn asked as he lifted Galadriel’s golden hair and clasped the sapphire he had given her about her neck. Galadriel looked down at her gown, a stiff dark silver silk with a pattern of flowers and vines done in deep blue velvet. The skirt of the gown was very full but the sleeves were long and tight fitting. The bodice was rather tight as well and worked together with the low scooped neck to accentuate her bosom. Galadriel grinned as she heard the clasp click closed and the sapphire fell to just above the cleft between the swell of her breasts.

“It is,” Galadriel said, glancing at her betrothed in the mirror. He grinned, but he wasn’t looking at her eyes. 

“That’s rather daring for your people,” Celeborn said with a laugh. “I recall how you all looked when you first arrived in Doriath, all buttoned and laced up so that you could hardly breathe, nary a hint of skin showing save for your face, and even that was veiled.”

“Fashions change, Celeborn,” Galadriel said with a playful grin as she fastened her earrings, “as do social mores.” 

“And has the prudishness of your people changed as well?” Celeborn asked. “I remember how many of them threatened me with the worst sorts of punishments for daring to take a Noldorin lady to my bed.”

“That never stopped you,” Galadriel murmured. 

“It won’t stop me tonight either,” Celeborn said, bending to whisper in her ear, nibbling at the tip for good measure and Galadriel felt a series of shivers course down her spine.

“Well you are rather affectionate today, aren’t you?” She quipped, closing her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she felt him slip his fingers into her bodice.

“What do you expect when I haven’t seen you in a decade,” he growled in her ear.

“Stop that,” she whispered as his hands wandered further. “We can’t be going to this banquet looking a mess.” But she took no further action to stop him and, in fact, rolled her head to the side as his lips found purchase in the delicate juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Ai, meleth nin,” she gasped, “we shall be late if we do not leave this moment.”

“What does it matter?” Celeborn asked her. “Thingol will not even be there. He left for the greenwood with Melian this afternoon.” Galadriel could imagine her beloved’s grin even though her eyes were closed. 

“You think you will delay me?” She asked with a playful grin, reaching up to catch his jaw in her hand, opening her eyes and standing, turning to face him as she moved the fingers of her other hand beneath his tunic to flick open the buttons of his breeches. “No, Celeborn, I shall be the one to make you late.” 

Twenty minutes later the prince was leaning against the wall, still gasping, entirely spent, trembling, sweat having broken out across his brow, and Galadriel stood, buttoning his breeches and tucking his shirt back in, pulling the bottom of his tunic down and straightening it before she brushed a teasing kiss across his lips and said, “I trust you will think of some excuse to make to the guests?” Celeborn watched her from half-lidded eyes and nodded mutely, seemingly at a loss for words at the moment. 

They were the recipients of more than one circumspect glance upon arriving at the feast and, as they took their seats, Galathil leaned over to his brother to whisper, “I believe you may have missed a trouser button.” Celeborn quickly glanced down and buttoned the offending button. “Not so subtle,” Galathil whispered with a grin, giving his brother a sidelong glance, “but admirable.” 

“Your hair is mussed Auntie,” Nimloth leaned across Venessiel to whisper with a chuckle and Galadriel reached up to smooth it, a faint blush breaking out across her cheeks. Nimloth was no longer a petulant adolescent but a woman full grown and she was old enough to have discerned what it was her aunt and uncle had been up to a few minutes prior to their arrival. 

The table seemed unusually quiet and Galadriel glanced around, trying to take stock of the situation, wondering what had happened. Venessiel took note of her confusion, whispering in her ear. “It is Saeros,” she said, “he’s having a bit of a…tantrum. You know how he gets.”

“Over what?” Galadriel asked and Venessiel nodded towards Túrin, who was sitting across from Saeros, sullenly staring into his golden goblet and neglecting to make conversation with anyone around him. 

“Túrin accidentally took Saeros’s seat and Seros has taken it as a grave offense,” Venessiel sighed. “Is this your first time to see Túrin?” Venessiel asked. 

“Yes, I only returned this morning,” Galadriel said, “and he was not with the king when I spoke to him.”

“Well, he is always that way, sulking,” Venessiel said in a tone of disapproval and Galadriel could well understand why the party-loving, extravagant minister of finance had taken a disliking to Túrin. There were other faces at the party that looked more pleasant, however, and she nodded and waved merrily to Nellas, who was sitting at the far end of the table, and grinning broadly at her. It would be good to speak to everyone again. 

“Well!” Saeros said in response to Galadriel and Celeborn’s arrival, raising his goblet in mocking praise, his hatred for Celeborn gleaming in his eyes. “Now that our resident Noldorin ambassador and guest of honor has finished polishing the cock of our crown prince and acting lord, perhaps the rest of us may be permitted our dinner. For Galadriel may indeed have already swallowed her appetizer but the rest of us have had nary a bite!”

Celeborn was trembling in rage and he would doubtlessly have snapped at Saeros or worse had not Galadriel grasped his hand and restrained him. “Just forget it and give the toast,” she hissed. “Ignore him. Do not give him the reaction that he wants. His words cannot harm me.”

Celeborn squared his shoulders and, with a good deal of tension and his eyes hard in anger, sat where Thingol normally sat. He reached for his goblet, clenching it so tightly in his effort to remain calm that his knuckles turned white.

“Let us begin,” he said, steadying his voice, “by toasting the Lady Galadriel and her resounding success in restoring our allies, the House of Finarfin, to the throne in Nargothrond. Tonight shall be a celebration of her accomplishments and a reminder of the importance of Doriath’s alliances with Finarfin’s children and with the children of our elf-friends, the House of Hador and the House of Bëor. It is because of such friendships amongst our peoples that Doriath endures and…”

But he was cut off mid sentence, for Saeros had interrupted him, a nasty smirk on his face, his fingers poised like a spider on the rim of his goblet. “And what of the Green Elves?” Saeros asked, rising to stand. “Will you say nothing of us? Is our alliance not as important as Doriath’s alliances with slayers of kin and second born? Or was it only important while it was of use to you? Perhaps now that Denethor is dead and the green elves will no longer fight, dying at the expense of a Sindarin king who never treated us as equals, you care for us no longer.”

The banquet hall fell into silence and Oropher, who was seated beside Saeros, was the first to speak, taking the counselor’s arm and saying, “perhaps you ought to excuse yourself. It seems that you have had too much to drink.” It was a gracious gesture on Oropher’s part, providing the counselor with a discreet excuse and the chance to leave, but Saeros shook off his friend’s arm. 

“I am not drunk,” he said, seething, “and I will not beg pardon for what I have said to someone who needs to hear such words.” 

“If you would allow me to finish…” Celeborn began in an attempt to try to placate Saeros, though certainly if Oropher had not been able to then no one would have been able to.

But Oropher rose from his seat, hoping there might still be a chance to talk some sense into his friend. “My friend,” he said to Saeros, laying his hand once more upon Saeros’s arm, “I beg you control yourself. Leave now before you do something even rasher that you may later regret.” 

Saeros shook his friend’s hand off once more, rounding on him in his anger and crying, “And who are you, Oropher, to tell me to ‘control myself’ as though I were some animal! If there is anyone here who ought to be controlled then perhaps it is your wife! For she lay in the beds of two of the men at this table ere ever you crawled inside of her!”

Oropher reeled back as though he had been struck, tears burgeoning in his eyes and his face coloring red in anger. He struggled to speak, to defend his wife no doubt, for Galadriel had felt her stiffen at her side and she reached out, clasping Venessiel’s hand beneath the table, but no words issued forth from Oropher’s mouth and Saeros would not be stopped. He turned, sneering at Túrin, who looked up at last from his cup. 

“And what of the women of the Edain?” He laughed cruelly. “If the men of Hithlum are so wild and fell, then what must the women be like? Do they run like deer clad only in their hair?”

“Saeros!” Nellas cried, rising from her seat but, before anyone could do anything, before they hardly had time to think, Túrin had stood, throwing the heavy golden goblet with all of his might at Saeros and it hit the elf in the head, knocking him backwards onto the ground. Oropher stumbled back, nearly tripping over the cushions they had been sitting upon and, with him out of the way, they could see that the rim of the goblet had cut deeply into Saeros’s forehead and he struggled to staunch the blood, taking his red napkin and pressing it over the wound, but the blood poured forth, spilling over his fingers and down his arm, staining the fabric of his tunic. They all stood aghast and Inwen alone, perhaps because she was a doctor, sprang into action, running to Saeros’s side, while Mablung struggle to restrain Túrin, who had drawn his sword in anger.

“Send for Madam Camaeneth!” Inwen cried, “he will need stitches and we must clean the wound. He may have a concussion and he is cut to the bone.” 

But Saeros struggled against the healer’s helpful hands. “How dare you draw your blade in the king’s hall, where such an action carries the sentence of exile? And how dare you draw on me, a trusted advisor of the king?” He roared, his face red with blood and anger. “Do it outside these halls and I will give you the death you seem to lust for!” But Túrin seemed to find the strength to ignore Saeros’s words and, shaking off Mablung’s restraining hands, he fled the hall.

Oropher was at Galadriel’s side now, pulling Venessiel, who was trying to choke back silent tears, away from the party. “Forget it,” Galadriel heard Oropher whisper to his wife. “He is only bitter over his own wife and his wounded pride and disrespected you out of spite. Come away from here with me and you will feel better.” The entire hall had fallen into an uproar and through that mayhem came Mablung, pushing people out of the way as he went and shouting something to Celeborn that they could not quite hear over all of the noise.

“What is he saying?” Galadriel asked but Celeborn only shook his head in a sign that he did not know and took her hand, pulling her through the throng of angry people towards Mablung. 

“We must go to your chambers at once!” Mablung said as they approached. “I have been informed that the thief made a second attempt during the feast and your handmaiden apprehended them. I have sent wardens but I have not yet seen the situation for myself.”

“Let us go then!” Celeborn said, signaling to several of the wardens to restrain Saeros if he caused any more trouble, and they fought their way through the hall, breaking into a sprint when at last they reached the corridors. There was a great commotion outside Celeborn’s chambers and, from what they could hear, an even greater commotion within. 

“Mablung hurry!” One of the wardens called upon their approach. “She is beating the life out of her and none of us are able to pull her off!” Celeborn and Galadriel pushed past Mablung, who was slower, running the last few meters to the door, through it, and down the hall past the servants quarters to find that Paniel was straddling a girl with brown curly hair wearing a long black cloak, her nose clearly broken now in multiple places, blood pouring forth from her face as she wailed in pain. Paniel paid no heed to her suffering and continued to slam her face into the floor.

“Bainwen…” Galadriel gasped, hardly able to believe it, so shocked that she took a step back, colliding with Celeborn. However, seeing that Paniel had no intention of letting the girl go or stopping her beating, she rushed forward trying to tear her handmaiden off of her. “Paniel stop! Stop it! Let the courts deal with her!” Galadriel cried but Paniel could not be stopped.

“She pretended to be your friend!” Paniel shrieked. “But all the while she was a filthy, false…” Suddenly, looking up, Paniel’s face went white, her eyes wide as if she had seen a ghost, and she dropped Bainwen’s hand that she had been pinning behind her back, all of the energy suddenly escaping her, and she stood on trembling legs. 

Galadriel turned to see Mablung standing in the doorway, looking at Paniel as though a sword had been driven through his heart. Paniel had much the same look in her eyes and she and the captain of the King’s guard stood, staring at each other mutely before Mablung gasped, in a strangled whisper that betrayed the fact that he was near tears, “you’re here?” 

Paniel only nodded numbly as the room went dead silent and Mablung turned away. “Celeborn,” he said, his voice cracking again,” my apologies but I beg you give me a moment.”

“Of course,” Celeborn said and Mablung strode back down the hall, exiting the prince’s chambers. Paniel retreated, falling into a chair, and Bainwen remained curled up on the floor, blood pouring from her broken nose, sobbing hysterically. 

“Perhaps…we should do the questioning tomorrow when everyone is in a better state,” Glindor, the lieutenant, said, discerning that Mablung seemed currently unable to do his job, Paniel seemed currently unable to speak, and Bainwen seemed currently unable to do anything that was not weeping.

“Yes, yes I think that might be better,” Celeborn nodded his thanks, extremely confused as to what exactly was going on, just as everyone seemed to be. “If you will just…take her to the healers and then…to prison I suppose…until she can be arraigned before the court.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Glindor said, bending down to pick up Bainwen. As he drew her up from the ground Galadriel’s jewels spilled forth from her pockets, the pearl earrings that had been Celeborn’s mother’s, the necklace she had worn at their betrothal, the hairpins and ornaments from Angrod and Aegnor. 

Galadriel stifled a sob, turning away for a moment as the wardens placed shackles on Bainwen and made to take her away, but she turned back a moment later, striding towards her former friend until she was only an inch from her face, her eyes hard with anger. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” She spat, her voice trembling. Bainwen hung her head in shame. 

“I…” she stammered, “you got everything you ever wanted.” And Galadriel raised her hand, slapping her hard across the face before turning away, tears pouring from her eyes. 

“Shall we send someone to clean the mess?” Glindor asked her gently, gesturing to the blood on the floor. 

“No, no, I just want everyone to go away,” Galadriel replied and they did as she bid, exiting and taking Bainwen with them while Celeborn placed a comforting hand on Galadriel’s shoulder. She tried to steel herself, wiping the tears away and turned, touching his arm gently, letting him know that she did not want to talk about it at the moment. 

He nodded in understanding and, with a sigh, said, “I am sorry to leave you but I must return and see to this situation with Saeros immediately.”

“Of course,” Galadriel said and, reluctantly they parted.

After that she sat on the floor, pulling her legs up to her chest and crossing her arms over her knees, resting her chin there and watching Paniel, who was still curled up in a chair and had not moved at all since the incident. Galadriel wasn’t sure why she did it, just a hunch, but she sighed and said, “do you want to go to the baths? That always makes me feel better and there won’t be anyone there right now.” Paniel thought about it for a moment and nodded. Then the two women stood, going to don their dressing gowns, and silently walked side by side to the baths.

Galadriel had been right, there was no one there, and they washed in silence before slowly padding across the mossy floor to sink into one of the expansive pools of piping hot water, leaning back against the wall of the bath to look up at the elegantly carved white marble trellises, thickly covered with blossoming pink, yellow, and orange flowers, and at the brightly-colored exotic birds that flitted about, singing their songs. 

They sat in silence for a long while and then Paniel said, “I killed my father.” Galadriel remained quiet, letting her speak, and presently Paniel continued. “It started why I was seven – that’s when he started…the…touching– after my mother had been taken by orcs. He had never been kind, but he was even crueler after that. I didn’t understand, the first time, only it felt wrong…and it hurt. At first it didn’t happen that often but then the longer it went on the worse it got and he would come in…wake me…and do it…” she fell silent again. 

“One day when I was 16 I hid a kitchen knife beneath my pillow and…when he came to me I gutted him with it. After that I ran away from the village,” she said, “I met a young Sinda in the forest and at first I was terrified of him but he never touched me like my father did. He only talked to me, said kind things, gave me bread to eat.”

“I lived in the wild but every now and then he…he would come to visit me, bring me something special, clothes or…or a cup…soap…or little things…the gifts became more extravagant…a bow, a beautiful quiver…a measure of silk…a gown, and I had never owned a gown, but then one day he brought…he brought a silver ring and said he wanted to marry me. But how could I marry him after what my father had done? How can I bond with anyone when the ability to bond had been stolen from me? If I married him he would know, and then he would want…he would want to do those things with me…what my father did. And so I fled again, out of Doriath, to Himlad, and there Curufin took me in.”

“And he did the same thing…” Galadriel said. Paniel nodded. 

“The people who care for you aren’t supposed to hurt you,” Paniel choked out and Galadriel reached for her hand, taking it in hers.

“Of course,” Galadriel said, “it is nothing compared to what you have endured but my uncle Fëanor was always strangely obsessive over my hair, and over me. Even when I was a child he would want me to sit on his lap so that he could touch it and it made me feel wrong somehow. But everyone was always saying how great he was and so I thought that certainly there could be nothing wrong with him; that there must be something the matter with me. And so I never told my parents.”

“When I became an adult,” she continued, “it bothered me even more, for his overtures grew stronger though he had a wife, sons, and I was his niece. To be honest I am not even sure that it was about sex. Lust? Maybe. Power? Certainly. Obsession? Absolutely. I was to be another jewel in his collection, another material for him to bend to his will, only I didn’t want to be owned by someone, especially not by him. I began to put him off more and more strongly, refused to let him touch me at all; he demanded a strand of my hair and I spurned him. After that he hated me, and I him.”

Paniel nodded silently and then she said, “did it make you frightened…that Celeborn would try to make you his the way Fëanor did?”

“At first, yes,” Galadriel told her, “but Celeborn was so strikingly different and, little by little, I began to realize that he would never act or think or do as Fëanor had done. He didn’t want to own me.” Paniel swallowed hard as if she were afraid to ask what she wanted but Galadriel waited patiently in silence.

“When you are…with…Celeborn,” she said haltingly, “it doesn’t seem as though it hurts…. It seems as though…you enjoy yourself,” she paused again. “Forgive me, I did not mean to see but…I was curious…because it didn’t seem as though he was hurting you…”

“He never hurts me,” Galadriel told her, “and he never has and never will. And I do enjoy myself, very much. That is how things ought to be, and how things are when you are with someone who loves you and cares for you.” She felt Paniel squeeze her hand but the girl said nothing more and Galadriel knew that, for now at least, Paniel had told her all that she could bear to tell her.

They had not stayed much longer but when they had returned she saw that Celeborn had cleaned up the mess and he was sitting in bed, waiting for her. It seemed so strange, Galadriel thought, that but a few hours before they had been lying here laughing. “Saeros has been dealt with,” he said, “and Túrin as well. But I have told Mablung to watch them closely in case either of them tries to make good on their threats. When I returned Venessiel and Oropher came by,” he told her. “Seeing as the girl was their servant they came to apologize, horrified over what had happened.”

“I hope it did not cause them too much worry,” Galadriel said, though of course she knew it must have, “they have had a difficult enough evening as it is.”

“I told them not to concern themselves with it,” Celeborn said. “Oropher was insistent that she be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Galadriel sat in silence for a moment. “I can hardly believe…” she began to voice her thoughts at last, shaking her head. “I never would have expected it.” She paused again. “But then again,” she said, “maybe it was so that she resented me.” She sighed. “She certainly had reason to. Here I was claiming to be her friend and then once things had worked out for me I never went to visit her again. I had feared Venessiel to be malicious at that time and I allowed my fear to ruin my relationship with Bainwen.” She sighed. “And here I was criticizing Thingol for the same thing only earlier today.”

“You are nothing like Thingol,” Celeborn said, shaking his head, “I can assure you of that. But let us rest, Galadriel. You have not even been back in the city for an entire day and there has been far too much excitement, far too much business, and far too much anger.” Galadriel nodded, sensing that Celeborn was tired and weary with stress, blowing out the candle as they slipped beneath the blankets and, silently, her betrothed pulled her into his arms.

_The wine was spilling out of the goblet as it hurtled towards Saeros, red droplets flying in each direction, splashing across all of their faces, and suddenly she was lying on her back on the docks in Alqualondë, trembling, her spear at her side, and Curufin was standing over her, holding a frightened Telerin man by the hair. He slit his throat and the blood burst forth, splattering her face, coating her skin._

_The blood became like a river, washing her out into the ocean, into the thicker, congealing blood of the sea that carried her through the gates of Nargothrond where she fell to the bloodstained floor and found herself staring up into the golden, glowing, malicious eyes of some great beast with scales like iron. It opened its wormlike lips and breathed her name… “Galadriel.” Her entire head was filled with the sound of Finduilas screaming, a high-pitched keening wail so loud that she nearly thought her skull would burst open from the sound of it._

_And she was screaming herself, screaming, and screaming, and screaming until she could hear nothing and see nothing and then the darkness dawned upon her, horrible, and titanic, unmoving, pressing down upon her like some great blanket of smothering earth and before her lay Thingol – or rather – Thingol’s head. She turned, searching for his body, and there was Celeborn on the floor, his breath coming in shallow and painful gasps, his stomach torn open and entrails strewn about on the ground. Celebrimbor’s words rang in her mind. “Celeborn will stay in his caves as doom comes upon him and he will drag you down into that abyss at his side!”_

_She fell at Celeborn’s side, pulling his head into her lap, her hands going to his ashen skin, his silver hair stained red with blood, begging him to stay alive, and then she felt hands pulling her up roughly. “The heir of Doriath is in her belly,” someone said and she felt the breath leave her as the cold steel of a knife plunged into her abdomen. “Celeborn’s son will perish within you,” Melian was screaming._

Galadriel awoke with a start, breathing hard, her whole body trembling, and the first thing she did was roll over and vomit over the side of the bed. It wasn’t until she spit up white bile that she realized they had not eaten anything at all today. Celeborn was awake, holding her hand, looking very worried and he stood, descending the stairs, returning a moment later with water, which he made her drink.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her and she took it wordlessly. He began to lead her through the corridors and down stairs and she wondered where he was taking her until they arrived at the kitchens. There was only a very surprised scullery maid there who had been cleaning some of the fireplaces and she bowed very low, asking if there was anything they needed, but Celeborn dismissed her. 

He made his way over to the main fireplace, pulling out a stool for Galadriel to sit on, giving her a smile and kissing her on top of the head. Then he went away for a moment and came back with four eggs, a pot of butter, salt, pepper, and a sack of grain. 

“I don’t believe you’ve ever cooked for me before,” Galadriel said quietly, still trembling, pulling her nightgown tight around her, and Celeborn turned to look at her as he set an iron pot over the fire.

“Haven’t I?” He asked, going away once more and returning with a few rashers of bacon, which he threw straight into the warming pot. Soon they began to crack and hiss, the rich scent rising into the air and he bent down, squatting, stirring the bacon about before he reached for a kettle of water sitting beside the hearth and poured it into the skillet. 

“What is that?” She asked as he began to add some of the grain from the sack. 

“Ground corn,” he told her before bending before the fireplace again, stirring the pot. Galadriel watched him work. He was wearing only a pair of moss colored breeches and the light cast by the fire in the darkened room slid over his skin, over the muscles of his back, his arms. There was an ease to his movements that belied the fact that, though he was a prince, he was much accustomed to physical labor. His silver hair hung long and he pushed it back over his shoulder. His green eyes were fixed intently upon the task at hand as he stirred the salt, pepper, and a dollop of butter into the pot. Something about watching his sure, certain movements calmed her heart.

He was truly beautiful. She had become so used to it that the thought hardly occurred to her but now, perhaps because she had not seen him in so long, she found herself in awe for a moment. He turned, catching her eye for a moment and smiled before he returned to the pot, breaking the eggs into it. He allowed them to simmer for a moment before he took the pot from the fire and ladled the mixture into two bowls.

It was surprisingly good, considering how rustic a dish it was, and Galadriel ate it all very quickly, finding that she was a great deal hungrier than she had anticipated. But she had hardly finished before Celeborn looked up at her over the rim of his bowl and softly said, “I thought we had agreed that there would be no secrets between us any longer.” 

She had known it was coming of course. Celeborn always seemed to be able to perceive her innermost thoughts even though he had not the gift of foresight. Galadriel sighed deeply, closing her eyes, trying to think of how to tell him, but she could not think of how to begin, what to say and, though she clenched her eyes tight shut, she could feel the tears beginning to leak, wetting her lashes. She reached up to wipe them away but she felt a hand, warm, and firm, and comforting –his hand – take hers and the thumb of his other hand she felt at her eyelashes, wiping the tears away. 

“I love you, Galadriel, very much,” he whispered and she nodded, trying to stop the tears, trying to find some way to say what she had to.

“And would you still love me,” she gasped, “even if I could not give you children?” She had thought he would ask her what she meant but he only fell to his knees at her feet, his arms about her waist and his head pressed against her abdomen. She wound her hands in his hair, sobbing openly now. 

“I would love you no matter what,” he told her, looking up, meeting her gaze with those green eyes of his that she adored. “It does not matter to me whether we have children or not, so long as I have you at my side. I have been so alone these past ten years, Galadriel, and I need you at my side now and forever.”

He stood and she allowed him to pull her up into his embrace, his body warm and comforting against her own. “Is it the curse?” He asked her and they pulled apart, moving to sit on the stools once more, her hands clasped in his. 

“I do not know…maybe,” she said, gasping, sniffing back her tears. “I…ever since the curse that fear had always lain latent at the back of my mind – that all I began would end in ruin – even the lives I created and bore. But then…” she paused, taking a deep breath, “the day that I confronted Melian she proclaimed that she had seen my doom in a vision and that my own children would be brought to ruin and become nothing more than a memory. She said that your son would wither within me and my womb turn to dust.” She could see the pain in Celeborn’s eyes as he looked upon her, the hurt. She remembered how he had been when Nimloth was she a baby, how Celeborn had dandled her upon his knee, laughed at her giggles, wondered aloud whether their children would have hair of silver or gold.

“Then we shall have no children,” he said, his tone firm and confident, his eyes filled with conviction. “And do not dare tell me that I should marry someone else or that you are not good enough,” he told her, cutting off the words that had already risen in her throat. “I love you and, knowing of your curse, I chose you freely and without reservation. It was also of my own will and without any hesitation that I joined myself to you by blood. And do not begin to tell me that things would have been different or better if I had not. For, a child is something made by both parents and so, even if I had not bonded myself with you in blood, it would not have mattered.”

“I am so sorry,” she stammered, unable to think of any way to adequately express her grief. 

“Galadriel, I swear to you that, once we are married, I shall never lie with you with the intent of creating a child,” he told her, squeezing her hands, and she nodded numbly. If it is children you want then there are other ways. For Thingol raised me as his own and there are many children in the wake of these wars who are bereft of parents. We might foster them as our own, raise them with love and care. They would not be blood of our blood. They would be free of the curse of Mandos.”

Galadriel nodded, blinking the tears away, feeling as though some great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and she wished she had told him sooner, but she had had to come to terms with it herself before she could bear to impart the news to him. She brought her hands to his face, caressing his cheek, tucking his silver hair behind his ears.

“You are the greatest of all the gifts that Ilúvatar has blessed me with,” she told him and Celeborn grinned.

“You are correct to say so,” he joked and Galadriel swatted his arm.

“Arrogance!” She chided him but he only laughed and drew her within the circle of his arms once more.

“I want that,” she said, “to lie with you as your wife. I want to know that sort of love.”

“Soon,” he said, “very soon.” And, having finished their very late dinner, they adjourned to their chambers once more.

They had barely managed to fall asleep again before a frantic pounding came on the door and they sat up, eyes bleary with sleep, and heard the door open for a second, followed by the sound of Mablung’s voice, which was then followed by the sound of the door being slammed shut. They then heard another door slam shut in what sounded like the servants’ quarters and the frantic pounding resumed. 

Celeborn gave Galadriel a quizzical look. “Did Paniel just refuse to let Mablung enter?” He asked her and Galadriel sighed. 

“I believe so,” she murmured with exasperation, nodding. The two of them rose, pulling on their dressing gowns, and went to the door themselves, finding a very anxious Mablung waiting outside.

“Celeborn!” He said immediately upon seeing the prince. “You must come, everyone has gone mad! I need your assistance!” The prince reached up to rub sleep out of his eyes and blinked at his friend, unable to believe that anything else could possibly go wrong in such a short amount of time. 

“What has happened?” He asked, a curiously dreadful feeling gripping his heart.

“There is malice in Túrin,” Mablung spat, his eyes angry. “And I know that Beleg loves him as a son but I tell you that there is malice in him indeed, for he would have run Saeros through with his sword at the banquet had I not restrained him and what Saeros did was wrong, yes, but it did not merit death. Perhaps I should have spoken more closely with you regarding my concerns over Túrin, for Inwen confided in me that as she was tending to Saeros’s wound he made further threats to kill Túrin. And yet, I was so concerned with the burglary in your quarters and…” he paused, “and with what troubled my own heart, that I said nothing last night, though it seems I should have. I am sorry, Celeborn. I did not keep my eye on Saeros and Túrin as closely as you ordered me to. I was distracted and now the whole thing is out of my hands!” 

“It is not your fault, Mablung,” Celeborn assured him. “They are the both of them fools! But tell me what has happened.”

Mablung’s eyes were quick and worried as he continued. “Just a little bit ago, when the sun had just risen, Túrin set out to return to the marches but as he was leaving he and Saeros engaged in some altercation, though I do not know which one of them started it. And then, bearing swords, they both fled into the woods. Beleg departed for the marches last evening and so is yet unaware of what has passed this morning but if he knew he would doubtlessly be sick over Túrin. ”

“These are evil tidings indeed,” Celeborn said, aghast. “Forgive me. I cannot help but feel as though it is my fault. I should have risen early to see that things were alright but I was overly tired from the events of yesterday.”

“Neither is it your fault,” Mablung said, his voice thick with worry. “I think that some shadow of the North has reached out to us tonight.”

“Let us go as fast as we are able,” Celeborn said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I will come with you to search for them, and quickly.” And so Mablung stepped inside for a moment as Celeborn hurried to don his hunting clothes and leather armor, fastening his grey cloak about his shoulders and gathering his knives, bow, and quiver. But Galadriel could not help but notice that, despite Mablung’s concern over the trouble that Saeros and Túrin were now in, his eyes seemed to continually dart towards the servants’ quarters.

“Bring him back to me safe, Mablung,” she said and the warden turned to her, seeming to have been startled out of some thought that clouded his mind.

“I swear it upon my honor, Lady Galadriel,” he assured her and then he and Celeborn were charging out to the forest, accompanied by Mablung’s troop of wardens.

It was not long before they could hear Saeros crying for help and they set off, sprinting in that direction. It was a hard road, with no clear path, and they ran for a while over rough and rocky terrain, through briars and brambles and thick forest. For elves, at least, neither Mablung nor Celeborn were among the fastest of runners, but their grave concern drove them on and gave them greater speed than they might otherwise have had. Their intimate knowledge of the terrain also lent them strength and, after some time, most of the other wardens had fallen behind. 

“Malice that wakes in the morning is the mirth of Morgoth ere night,” Mablung panted, turning with worried eyes to Celeborn, but the silver-haired Sinda could only nod his agreement, for he felt as if his lungs were burning and, just then, they burst out into a clearing where Túrin stood, having stopped, it seemed, to catch his breath for a moment, just as they now did. But as Mablung moved towards the man he drew away and so the warden stopped once more. “Hold, hold, Túrin!” He cried, angry. “This is orc-work in the woods!”

Túrin, his face wrathful which, Celeborn noted, was perhaps the first time he had ever seen his emotions so visible upon his usually impassive face, called back; “orc-work in the woods for orc-words in the hall!” Then he was off again, darting through the trees and Celeborn, still unable to speak, heard Mablung curse violently under his breath and swear, “Aulë’s balls!” He somehow managed to gather his strength and took off into the woods after Túrin. Celeborn made to follow but the fact that he had been awake now for several days and only eaten once was taking its toll on him. Still, he managed to gather his strength after a few more minutes and followed where Mablung had gone. He could hear the other wardens drawing near once more.

The terrain was growing more dangerous, he noted to himself, for they were drawing near to some of the tributaries that fed into the Esgalduin and the area here was very rocky, with deep crevices and ravines that were nearly impossible to see until you were on top of them. “Take care!” He called back at the wardens who followed. “This area is very dangerous!” And, in his heart, he curse Túrin and Saeros both for their foolish pride that was endangering so many lives. 

Hardly had he had this thought when he burst out of the trees at a brink where a stream that fed into the Esgalduin flowed down in a deep cleft through high and treacherous rocks. The first thing he saw was Mablung, and the sight of the warden brought him relief, but he looked to where Mablung’s eyes were fixed in fury and saw Túrin standing there, yet he did not know what words they had already passed or what had happened. 

“Celeborn,” Mablung murmured, jerking his head towards the edge of the ravine, and the prince approached, peering down to the rocks awash in water below where a gruesome sight awaited him. There was Saeros, clearly dead, for a body could not contort in such a way and yet live. His limbs were broken and bent at unnatural angles, his body bloody and bruised, his skull showing through where it had doubtlessly been dashed on a rock in his fall and blood and brain matter were leaking now into the Esgalduin. 

Celeborn stepped back, disgusted, for he had seen death many times, and he had no love for Saeros, but he still considered it a grievous thing for anyone to meet their end in such a manner and he accounted what Túrin had done to be very wrong and unjust. Several of the other wardens had arrived by now and they too peered over the edge of the cliff, gasping at the grisly sight below.

“There are other witnesses,” Mablung said to Túrin, clearly continuing some conversation they had begun before anyone had arrived. “Thingol will be recalled to Menegroth and when he learns the truth you may hope for his pardon.

“I refuse your bidding,” Túrin spat, but Celeborn could see the fear in his eyes despite his proud words. “Either let me go or kill me, if you want to make me answer to the law, but I will not return with you. There are not enough of you to take me alive. Either I must die or you will.”

“He has already slain one elf! How many more of us does he intend to kill?” One of the wardens cried and Celeborn, having thought the same thing, nocked an arrow and drew in the span of a heartbeat, his weapon trained on Túrin. 

“Will Thingol’s disappointing son now kill his favored on?” Túrin sneered and Celeborn might have loosed his arrow had not Mablung stopped him.

“He is not worth your arrow, Celeborn,” Mablung said, holding out his hand. “One death here is enough for today I think. 

“I did not mean to kill him,” Túrin said, “but I certainly shall not mourn him. Mandos will give him what he deserves, no doubt, and perhaps he will be a little wiser then, if ever he ever returns to the land of the living. Farewell then, soldiers of Doriath.” 

“Then go free,” Mablung said. “If we ever meet again then I hope your heart will not be any darker than it already is.” And, before anyone could say anything else, Túrin slipped away into the forest.

It had taken them the rest of the day to retrieve Saeros’s body, for it was a dangerous endeavor and the lightest and smallest of the wardens, a young elf woman, had to rappel down the cliff face and, using a cloak, improvise some sort of stretcher that could be fastened with the ropes so that they could pull the body back up. It was a very unpleasant task all around and, by the time that they managed to return to Menegroth, they were all in a rather worse mood than when they had set out, which was saying quite a lot seeing the anger with which they left Menegroth.

“What shall we say to his wife?” Celeborn asked Mablung and the warden shook his head. 

“Well we should certainly not allow her to see him like this,” Mablung answered, “not until we’ve managed to clean him up a bit.” Thingol had been sent for, but they knew it would take them some days to return, and so they had taken Saeros’s body to the houses of healing where they had prepared him for burial. His wife had then been sent for, and one of her friends to accompany her.

It was a wretched ordeal, all of it and, when at last Thingol returned, they told him of all that had passed. The entire council assembled then in the great hall and Thingol made to pass his judgment on the matter. “Saeros and Túrin have both done wrong in my estimation,” he said. “Saeros I trusted and he served me well and dutifully for a long while, but he was wrong to taunt Túrin as he did and I place the blame upon him for the evil things that happened in this hall. For that I pardon Túrin. But Túrin is to blame and the greater part of the blame falls upon him, for he shamed Saeros, injured him, and chased him to his death. Despite how Saeros taunted him, such retribution was unmerited to say the least and I cannot forget or forgive these actions for they evidence the fact that Túrin’s heart is hard and proud.”

The king paused then before continuing, thinking to himself, and Celeborn knew that his heart was troubled. “After all I did for Túrin, raising him as my own son, he repaid us all with pride and ungratefulness. He has scorned the laws of Doriath and thus he has scorned me and I cannot harbor him, nor can I pardon someone who is so unrepentant. He shall be banished from the Kingdom of Doriath and, if at any time he seeks entry into these lands again, he shall be brought before me to face his judgment. Until he begs pardon of me at my feet, as he should, I will not consider him my son any longer. Are there any here who object?”

No one said anything and Thingol raised his hand to pronounce his judgment but, just at that moment, Beleg came running into the hall, his anxiety written clearly across his face and cried, “Lord, may I yet speak?”

“Where have you been?” Thingol asked him. “You were summoned with the others who have gathered here and yet you have arrived late.”

“Forgive me,” Beleg cried, “for I was delayed in seeking Nellas. But you should hear what she has to say before you proclaim your judgment, for she witnessed what happened at the gates of the city as Saeros and Túrin set out. I beg you, Your Majesty,” Beleg cried, distraught, falling to his knees. “You know how diligently I have seen to Túrin’s training as you bade me do. And you know that Nellas and I have come to care for him as though he were our own son. I beg you,” he repeated himself, “to hear what Nellas has to say!”

“Very well,” Thingol said and Beleg returned, leading Nellas in by the hand. Celeborn could see instantly how uncomfortable she was with the situation, for she had no liking for such formal affairs at all, even less for something as serious as a trial, and he knew how much she despised the city. “Speak then, Nellas,” Thingol bade her. “Beleg says that you know something of what has happened.”

“Your Majesty,” Nellas began, “I was sitting in a tree.” But then she seemed to grow nervous, turning to Beleg for support, and Celeborn could well imagine how trying an ordeal this must have been for her and Beleg both.

But Thingol smiled, seeming amused by her words and said, “Others have done this also, but have felt no need to tell me of it.”

Seeing that the king was not upset with her, and seeing that he did not intend to punish her for some perceived failing in her nurturing of Túrin, Nellas continued. “Others indeed,” she said, “even Lúthien, and I was thinking of her and Beren, in fact, as I was sitting in the tree.”

That took the smile straight away from Thingol’s face, as Celeborn would have expected it would. “I have always thought that Túrin reminds me of Beren,” Nellas said. “They are akin and I can see in them similarities.” Celeborn felt his own ire grow at that, wondering if, no, suspecting that Nellas’s love for the man had perhaps blinded her to his faults. For Beren was been brave, and valiant, and good-hearted, but Celeborn saw none of those traits at all in Túrin. Thingol seemed to have had the same thought, growing more serious and impatient.

“Perhaps,” Thingol said, “but Túrin has disgraced me as well as this kingdom and her laws. If you have nothing more to say, Nellas, then I will speak my judgment.”

“My King, I beg you,” Nellas cried in anguish, “bear with me! I was sitting in the tree, hoping to catch a glimpse of Túrin before he left, and it was then that I saw Saeros come out of the woods with his sword draw and a shield on his arm, attacking Túrin while he was unaware, intending to slay him!”

Thingol paused then, thinking for a while, and said, “this I did not expect and I am sorry to hear it.”

“They fought, Your Majesty, until Túrin had taken both Saeros’s shield and sword, but he did not kill him even though he had divested him of his weapon. So I do not believe that Túrin intended or meant to kill Saeros. Indeed, seeing as Saeros tried to kill Túrin, it seems he had little choice but to fight back.”

“Why did Túrin say nothing of this to you?” Thingol addressed Mablung and Celeborn. 

“He did not,” they both answered. 

“If I had known then I would have questioned him differently before he fled into the woods,” Mablung said.

“So I will now judge him differently,” Thingol said. “I say that Túrin is pardoned, for Saeros provoked him and sought to murder him. It is only just that Túrin need not seek my pardon, but that I will send it to him, seeing as it was a member of my own council who wronged him.” 

It was indeed a much kinder sentence than the King had at first intended to levy upon his foster son, but Nellas, in a fit of sentiment quite foreign to her, suddenly collapsed to the ground, weeping, and cried, “Where can he be found? He has left our land, and the world is so big that we might never find him again.”

But Beleg drew her up from the floor and into his arms, holding her tightly as she wept, and said, “Nellas, I beg of you, do not weep, for if Túrin still lives or walks abroad I shall find him, though all others fail you. I swear it to you.” And he wiped her tears away, cradling her head in his hands.

*****

**Footnote: A note on elves and rape.** There are at least two elves that we know of that we raped: Aredhel (perpetrated by an elf) and Celebrían (perpetrated by orcs). In LACE Tolkien says that elves who were raped could often not endure this and passed to the halls of Mandos. The fact that Tolkien actually wrote a paragraph about what happens to elves when they are raped suggests that it does in fact happen in his world and probably more elves other than Aredhel and Celebrían were raped, although I think, since he also states that elves were less prone to these kinds of actions and thoughts, we can safely assume it did not happen as frequently as it does with humans in his works. Also, besides the fact that Tolkien explicitly says elves can and do rape, we also know that elves in the Silmarillion murder, commit genocide, and kill infant and very young children. If they can do these things then rape is definitely within the scope of things they will do.

This being said, both Aredhel and Celebrían survived their rapes and continued to live afterwards, Aredhel for a long period of time, instead of going to Mandos. They did not, however, have a good quality of life after their experience. As we know, Celebrían departed over the sea after a year. Aredhel was basically held captive by her husband/rapist and eventually was killed.

There is some debate over whether or not these two were actually raped since Tolkien never explicitly says the word 'rape.' He uses words like torment or married against their will. But, again, a lot of the older stories that Tolkien was mimicking don't use the word rape either and the language Tolkien does use is very indicative and follows the same pattern as descriptions of rape in other similar stories, legends, and myths. He also later revised his work and said Aredhel was "not entirely unwilling" which, to me, still sounds pretty far from being consensual. Many scholars and fans are of the opinion that they were raped and many are of the opinion that they were not so I think either view has evidence although the general consensus seems to be that they were raped.

Again, I am not putting this issue in here for shock value or any other reason other than I genuinely believe it is a real and important issue that shouldn't be ignored or written out. I know people and have friends who have been raped. I think that for a lot of women (and men) this is a very real issue and I think that to leave issues like this out of this story is equivalent to pretending that rape doesn't happen or that we shouldn't talk about it.

I have deliberately been vague about what exactly Paniel's father and what Curufin did to her. It was definitely sexual abuse, but the particulars are for you guys to decided for yourselves taking into account canon, this story, and your own personal beliefs and experiences.


	34. Glaurung Triumphant

  
**Glaurung Triumphant**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 34th Chapter

*****

“Fairy tales are more than true:  
not because they tell us that dragons exist,  
but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

_\- Neil Gaiman_

***** 

**Author’s note:** Hey guys, thanks so much for reading and for your lovely reviews! Sorry to keep you waiting for this chapter. I had a really hard time writing it and I’m not so sure about it. It is just that getting through this Turin story arc was hard for me. I hope you enjoy it!

 **Character Profile:** ELU THINGOL!!

Thingol is probably the most complex and nuanced character in this entire story and I probably put more blood, sweat, and tears into him than any other character. I think that is just the nature of who he is in Tolkien’s writing so I always knew he was going to be a real challenge. Looking at Thingol in the Silmarillion he is obviously a complex character. He is at the same time an antagonist and a protagonist. He can be extremely generous and he can be extremely wrathful. He can be very fair and wise and also be very unfair and biased. I think that Thingol defines a lot of the relationships in the story and his relationships with the other characters define those characters to a greater or lesser extent.

Celeborn’s father and grandfather were very dear to Thingol so he really does see Celeborn as his son. Celeborn and Galathil are closer kin to him than Oropher and Celeborn was about ten years older than Galathil when they were orphaned and brought to Thingol so it was easier for Thingol to develop a meaningful relationship with Celeborn than with Galathil, who was a baby. Also, Celeborn and Thingol are a lot alike in terms of personality, which we get glimpses of and allusions to in FOTR (the book). I think that is another thing that causes Thingol to develop a closer relationship with Celeborn than any of the other princes. Oropher is a bit jealous of this. Galathil doesn’t really mind it at all. And, Thingol’s relationship with Celeborn is one of the most important relationships in the story.

At first, obviously, Celeborn and Thingol have a very close father/son relationship but, and I hope this was apparent early on, even in the initial chapters there were some little things that hinted that they would begin to grow apart over the course of the story. I think one important aspect of this is that Thingol is a master manipulator. In a way, he reminds me a bit of Frank Underwood from House of Cards. Not the murderer bit, but the very calculating, always in control bit. Thingol is always in control of everything and he knows how to manipulate people, events, and things, to get what he wants. Sometimes this is for good (as we saw with his urging Celeborn to help Finrod start Nargothrond and as he helps Galadriel gain a solid foothold in Menegroth upon her return) and sometimes this is for bad (when he grows abusive after getting the Silmaril). He starts to lose control after he gets the Silmaril. I think he thought he could control it but instead it controlled him.

And, throughout the entire story Thingol has had that potential to be abusive in him. Thingol needs love and he lives off of adulation. When he is getting that he is great but when he isn’t getting that the darker aspects of his personality take over and he kind of flails like a drowning man, desperately seeking affection. But I think that what Celeborn eventually discovers about Thingol is that it is never enough, Thingol can never have enough love and so he is always going to be unsatisfied. 

Again, obviously, Celeborn and Thingol have really grown apart over the course of the story and the start of that was Galadriel, but maybe not for the reasons you think. Thingol actually likes and admires her so it isn’t that he disapproves of the match. The issue is that Galadriel showed Celeborn a different kind of love that he had never seen before. She didn’t feed off of him or need him to survive. She just simply love him. After returning from Nargothrond she was content to love him even if he didn’t love her back. Thingol would never have been able to do that and, whether consciously or subconsciously, Celeborn realized that. This isn’t to say that Thingol doesn’t love Celeborn, because he definitely does, but it is always going to be a sort of parasitic relationship.

So Thingol feels like he has been losing Celeborn for a long time and this makes him upset. The situation with Lúthien, where he does lose her, only exacerbates this loss of love that Thingol is feeling. Then, when Melian reacts to the whole thing by shunning Thingol he feels really alone and unloved and frightened. So he reacts in a very negative way to that and basically starts to dwell on all the instances where he feels he was unloved or undeserving of love. He remembers how the Teleri left without him on the great march, he feels guilt over how his people stayed behind to search for him instead of going to Aman, he feels like Lúthien, Celeborn, and Melian don’t love him anymore. He also feels like the Valar don’t love his people and abandoned them (so he wants to take something the Valar wanted, the Silmaril). Basically, he is dealing poorly with really complex emotions.

This is a way that Celeborn and Thingol differ greatly. Celeborn really has that innate self-confidence and he doesn’t depend on others for his emotional support like Thingol does. This is something that his relationship with Galadriel has really nurtured. And yet, Celeborn feels a strong sense of devotion to the people he cares about so it is very hard for him to just let go of Thingol. He can’t really do it completely. In that way he puts himself in a position where he makes it easy for Thingol to abuse him and Thingol does this without hesitation once he starts to lose his mind. Thingol is aware he is doing this he just can’t master his insecurities well enough to stop himself from doing it.  
By this point Thingol has really deteriorated to the point that it is almost impossible for him to come back. And yet, Thingol does really love Celeborn, Melian, and Lúthien. His fostering of Túrin, in his mind, was an attempt to make things right between him and humans after the whole Beren fiasco. He has slowly been rebuilding his relationship with Melian, and now he wants to make things right between him and Celeborn. It was really hard for me to destroy his relationship with Celeborn because I loved it so much. But hopefully Thingol can behave himself at the wedding and be nice to people again and start to make things a little better.

There is so much I could say about Thingol and I probably forgot about 50% of what I wanted to say so if there is anything else you want to know please shoot me a comment and I’ll answer your questions.

*****

“Doriath needs you, Beleg!” Celeborn cried, at his friend’s heels as the warden strode through the great armory, equipping himself for his journey. “If you leave now you are abandoning us all! You swore an oath to this kingdom, to protect her and her citizens!” He had half a mind to grab his friend by the neck and throttle him for his foolhardy decision.

“Thingol has given me leave to go!” Beleg replied, his voice terse with anger at his friend as he pulled on his bracers. It was unusual to see the normally mind-mannered and kind-spoken warden in such an agitated state. “The rest is of no concern to you.”

“It is my concern!” Celeborn said, fuming with anger, “as both your friend and your prince it is my concern. Túrin is not worth this! He is not worth taking this…this…blasted, cursed sword of Eöl’s. He is not worth the torment and death you might face out there beyond the girdle!”

Beleg turned back to his friend, his grey eyes fierce. “He may not be worth it to you, but he is worth it to me, and to Nellas!” He spat.

“To Nellas!” Celeborn scoffed, shaking his silver head. “Beleg she doesn’t love you, she never has and she never will, at least not in the way you desire! I know these past years, in raising Túrin together…perhaps you imagined that there was some hope, that the three of you had become like a family, that she had grown to see you as you wish that she would…but she loves _him_ , not you! Do not throw your life away…”

“Throw my life away?” Beleg interjected, his voice trembling with anger, his eyes filled with unshed tears as he laced his bracers. “Is that what you call it, Celeborn? Is that what you call wanting to rescue the boy I raised as my own son, assisting the woman that I love? What does it matter whether she loves me or not? I would see her smile again, no matter the price!”

“Even if the price is your life and the lives of those you swore to protect?” Celeborn cried. “Will there be no one sane left in this city? Who will be left to fight, to safeguard the people? We all know that dark days are coming!”

“You want to point fingers, very well then, let us point fingers and lay blame,” Beleg spat, trembling, pushing Celeborn away. “What hope is left here? The king has gone mad! The queen lies about doing nothing! Thingol had put you in charge while he was away! You are the only one fit to lead and where were you when Saeros attacked Túrin? Rumor has it that you were abed with Galadriel! Yet you dare to speak to me of letting my love for a woman distract me?”

“How were any of us supposed to know that Saeros would make good on his threats!” Celeborn cried. “He threatens everyone! We did not know this time would be different! And these have been trying times for Galadriel and I both! It is nothing more than the most unfortunate timing that on the one day that we at last rested this whole affair took place! I am very sorry it happened. I wish for all the world that I could go back and fix things but that is not possible and you leaving Thingol’s service will not solve anything either.”

Beleg merely scoffed and shook his head as he threw his quiver over his shoulder and buckled it over his chest. “Are you going to stay here in these caves and die with the rest of them then?” Beleg said bitterly. “Is that your idea of fixing things?”

“Who will the people have if I do not?” Celeborn said, his eyes flashing in anger. “Who else will stand at Doriath’s defense in her hour of need? Who will lead the people to safety if things go awry? I have made my choice, Beleg, and it is to stand with my kingdom and her people, to the bitter end if need be.”

“And I have made my choice, and that is to go where my heart leads me,” Beleg said, buckling his knife belt and Anglachel about his waist.

“You are a fool to do so!” Celeborn cried, lashing out at his friend with harsh words. 

“Am I?” Beleg said, his gaze piercing. “Is that not what you are doing, letting your heart keep you here in this death trap? What if Galadriel pays for your choices with her life?”

“Do not speak of her when you know so little of our relationship!” Celeborn spat.

“Then I would beg you do the same and not speak of my relationship with Nellas when you know nothing of it!” Beleg retorted before turning and striding away, his footsteps echoing down the long hall. 

“Beleg, this is not like you! Let us not part as enemies!” Celeborn cried, but his friend did not even turn to give him a last glance, much less a friendly word, and Celeborn stood as if rooted to the spot, his shoulders trembling in anger, his fists clenched at his sides. He had never thought that Beleg, of all people, would leave, especially not for such a cause as this, and he resented the implications that his friend had made regarding Galadriel.

They had never spoken of it directly but he knew that she had not made her decision to stay solely because of him, nor would he have wished her to do so. He knew more surely than anyone else the pain Galadriel had felt as her mother had watched coldly from the doorstep, refusing to speak words of parting when she had left Tirion, as her mother’s kin had been slain all around her in Alqualondë, as her father had turned back from the march, when her brothers had perished. This was her home, just as it was a home for his people: hard fought for, hard won, hard kept. Galadriel stayed because she wanted to stay, just as he did; she was not the sort of woman who would have stayed for any other reason.

He wished in fact that she would leave, for he did not need foresight to know that doom was coming upon him, but he also knew that she would never have agreed to it and he would not insult her by begging that she go; he respected her decision just as she did his. In a sudden fit of rage he turned and, with a wordless roar, toppled a rack of spears. They clattered to the ground, falling every which way, and he picked one up, hurling it with full force against the wall, breathing hard. He tried to calm himself, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, working to steady his breathing, but several of the soldiers who had been at the far end of the armory came running, quickly beginning to set the rack and spears to rights.

“My apologies,” Celeborn murmured, bowing his head, embarrassed that they had seen his moment of weakness and childish temper. “Let me help you,” he said, bending to pick up the spears but the soldiers merely laughed and pulled him back up.

“You needn’t worry yourself over it, Your Highness,” they said, friendly hands slapping him on the back. “You’ve enough on your plate as it is.” But, despite their kind words, the aching of his heart did not abate. Somehow, he felt as though he would never see Beleg again.

*****

Celeborn had been having fits of anger in the years since Beleg had left and tonight’s dinner had been no exception. So Galadriel, thinking it best to leave him on his own to sort out his temper and not wanting to be around him at all anyway when he was in such a state, had breathed a sigh of relief when, as dinner came to an end, he had informed her that he would be going to the baths to ease his mind. She loved Celeborn, but not so much his temper, and besides, after all of the recent events, she was much looking forward to returning to the peace and quiet of their chambers where she might enjoy her time alone and, perhaps, get some work done.

There were so many things of late that occupied her mind and heart. Since the Falas had fallen during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Doriath had been petitioned constantly by Círdan for aid. He had managed to lead the refugees south to safety, setting up two camps, one at the Mouth of the Sirion and the other on the Isle of Balar, but their provisions were sparse and winter was nearly upon them now. Of course, Thingol sent everything that Doriath could spare, but the council had been tasked with trimming the budget, eliminating all excess so that more aid could be funneled to Círdan. It was such a massive and taxing endeavor that the King had tasked every one of his ministers, even those, like Galadriel, whose realm of expertise was neither war nor money, with helping the overwhelmed Venessiel in adjusting the kingdom’s accounts. 

Then there was the fact that, after long years of waiting, Bainwen’s trial had been set to take place after a few more days and, as the appointed day drew closer and closer, Galadriel felt even more regret and sorrow over what had happened to her one-time friend. She had thought that Bainwen might send her some message, some note explaining why she had done such a thing, for surely there must be some sort of explanation, but nothing had come. Mablung had questioned her but he had not been able to get any information out of her whatsoever. She had merely told him that she would only speak at the trial, when the king would be there to hear and judge for himself. 

Thus, it was in a state of heightened anxiety and emotion that Galadriel returned to her chambers and it was not until she had already made her way down the hall and into the main rooms that she realize the raised voices she was hearing were coming from the direction of the servants’ quarters. With even further chagrin, she realized that it was no mere squabble between Celeborn’s pages, but a full on argument between two people she knew quite well.

“How long have you been in the city?” It was undoubtedly Mablung’s voice and yet, though he was one of Celeborn’s dear friends, Galadriel had never heard the warden sound anything less than perfectly confident and professional, but now he sounded like a man in mortal pain, a desperate man. 

“It’s none of your business, really, Mablung,” she heard Paniel shoot back and Galadriel’s eyes widened as she shrunk back into the wall, wondering what she ought to do. She had already passed the hall that led to the servants’ quarters and now she was afraid to go back out the door, for that would require passing by that hallway once more. What if they saw her this time? They would certainly know that she had overheard what seemed to be a very private conversation. But then, they were speaking so loudly that even within Celeborn’s rooms she could hear them clearly. 

“How is it none of my business?” Mablung cried. “I hadn’t seen you in a century and then Celeborn and Lúthien came carrying you all battered and bruised back from Himlad. I went to find you in the houses of healing but you had fled!”

“Of course I fled!” Paniel shouted. “I knew you would come looking for me the first chance you got!”

“I spent years searching for you in the forest after that!” Mablung cried. “Never did I suspect that you had actually hidden yourself in the city!”

“You were the one who taught me the art of espionage,” Paniel replied. “I fail to see why you are so surprised.”

“I never thought you would use it against me!” Mablung cried. “What need have you to hide yourself from me? You could have at least left me some message that you were safe but I never heard a single word from you, then all of a sudden I find out that, not only are you still in Menegroth, but you are Galadriel’s handmaiden! What did you think would happen? Did you think you could avoid me forever? Did you think I wouldn’t be upset?”

“What do you want, Mablung, really, what do you want?” Paniel sneered. Why are you here? Why could you not just leave me be?”

“You know what I want! The same thing I wanted 500 years ago!” Galadriel flattened herself against the wall, wide-eyed, quickly putting the pieces together as the realization began to dawn on her that Paniel was certainly not who, or what, or as young as she had thought she was.

“A home with little happy elflings,” Paniel said in a singsong voice laced with sarcasm. “It’s a fantasy Mablung. How many happy families do you know? Hm? How many. Look at Thingol, locking his daughter away, shaving the prince’s head; he called them both his children once. Now Túrin too has fled and the queen walks about as though she is half dead! What about Curufin? All the time I was undercover in Himlad I saw the way he treated his son, Celebrimbor! My own father…”

“Not everyone is your father and not everyone is Curufin,” Mablung said, determined. “You know me. You know I am different!”

“And what if you change? What if you became like them!” Paniel seemed near tears, something Galadriel had heretofore thought impossible.

“Then kill me as you did your father,” Mablung replied. “If I ever were to raise a hand to you, to our children, I would want you to kill me! Paniel I…”

“Don’t touch me!” Galadriel heard Paniel shriek, followed by a resounding slap and then silence. 

“I’m not going to hurt you…” she heard Mablung say in a cracked and broken voice. “You needn’t be afraid of intimacy! Paniel…it can be a pleasurable thing…we could take things slowly…I would never do anything you did not wish. If you wanted me to stop I would stop immediately. If you wish that I would never touch you then I will abstain entirely, if only so that I might live with you, wake by your side.”

“Pleasure!” Paniel sneered through her tears. “Yes, I have heard that you get quite enough of that!”

“Rumors!” Mablung cried. “Rumors only! Women have an affinity for me and my friends find it amusing and make jokes about it. That is all. I have never…You know I love you. You know I have only ever loved you, since we were children. And you love me, I know you do. You told me once.”

“Love isn’t real,” Paniel spat. 

“And what about them,” Mablung said, “What about Celeborn and Galadriel? Surely you who are her handmaiden are intimately familiar with their relationship. Have you ever seen him raise his hand to her? Have you ever seen him force himself on her?”

“He will one day. He has a temper,” Paniel replied tersely.

“You don’t believe that. I can see it in your eyes. He won’t. I know him,” Mablung said fiercely. “He would never. Is that not love, what they have? You must observe every intimate detail of their lives. You have seen what humiliation and hardship he has gone through for her.”

“They love each other,” Paniel replied, “is that what you want me to say? What good is it? He feels her pain as if it were his own and the reverse is also true. Love is only pain, nothing more. You have seen the pain it has brought them.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Mablung asked her. “Are you afraid of the pain?” The room went silent. 

“Get out!” Paniel cried. “Out! Out! OUT!”

“Give me an answer!” Mablung protested.

“Your answer is ‘no, never,’ the same as it was before!” Paniel was shouting. “Get out! Go! I don’t want to see your face anymore! I don’t want to see you ever again!” Galadriel could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she heard Mablung’s footsteps in the hall. He halted for a moment and then continued and, momentarily, she heard the door slam behind him. From the servants’ hall, Paniel’s door slammed as well and Galadriel could hear her sobs. She thought briefly about trying to comfort her but decided against it seeing as she was certain that Paniel would never have wished her to overhear that conversation.

Slowly, silently, she crept down the hall to Celeborn’s greenhouse, which was the furthest room from the servants’ quarters, and seated herself on the ground amidst his plants, her back pressed against the trunk of a young beech. The tree calmed her and she could feel the life within it beating like a pulse. She sat there for some time with a heavy heart, pondering the conversation she had just heard, Bainwen’s betrayal, and all of the events of the past few years. She had never voiced it to Celeborn directly but she was sure that he knew just how worried she was. Doriath had seemed a paradise to her when she had first come here, a place that she had loved so much that she had been willing to do anything so that she might return.

It seemed so long ago now that she had stood in the square at Tirion, her heart pounding with excitement, overly eager to journey to Middle Earth and seek out a life full of glory. She smiled ruefully now, recalling how excited she had been, how innocent, how naïve. How could she have known what was to come, for either good or ill? But then she closed her eyes, blinking away tears as she remembered how ignorant she had been, how she had thought that she could simply come here, take any land that she wanted, that the elves of Middle Earth would bend their knees to her without complaint, accept a Noldorin ruler by virtue of the ‘superiority’ of the Calaquendi. 

It had taken her longer than it ought to have to learn that she had ventured into a land where that supposed superiority meant nothing, where blood was the price in which kingdoms were bought, where loyalty was something that had to be earned rather than given at birth. Venessiel’s words echoed in her mind: _I have served Doriath with devotion and now the king is throwing away everything that I have worked for, everything that we all have worked for._ The sentiment had rung true in her own heart as well. 

Everything she had here she had worked for, slaved for, fought for, sweated for, bled for. She understood the price that the Sindar had paid for peace, for security, for happiness; she understood it because she had paid it too: in Alqualondë drenched in the blood of her mother’s people, in the wilds of Beleriand where her skin had been stretched like paper across her bones, in Doriath where she had been forced to endure scorn, and ridicule, and humiliation for the merest chance at redemption. She had faced her darkest demons and her greatest fears for the sake of this kingdom, all because so long ago Celeborn had called Doriath his first love and so she had endeavored to love it as well, until her heart had been given over completely to this place, the dearest home she had ever known.

She let out a shuddering sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her head upon them as she recalled Celebrimbor’s words: _Celeborn will stay in his caves as doom comes upon him and he will drag you down into that abyss at his side!_ His caves – but they were her caves too. It was not for blind loyalty to Celeborn that she was staying; it was because she felt the same as he did. This was her home and she was not about to leave it. She had already lost one home, one family, she was not about to abandon another. _This time_ , she thought, _this time I will not run away._

She shook her head, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall and then, taking a shuddering breath, she reached out to touch the leaves of a small oak that was still in a pot. Celeborn planted the bigger and hardier plants in the soil here, but those that were struggling he kept in clay pots so that he might move them about to give them proper light, air, and heat. This oak, she knew, had been giving him particular trouble and yet, as with all of his plants, it seemed there was something of his soul in them. The tiny oak seemed to have sensed her trouble and wrapped its leaves about her finger as if to comfort her, rather the way a baby did. They were, after all, his children in a way, she supposed with a small smile.

“You poor little thing,” she murmured to the oak as she knelt down before it, carefully examining its bark and branches, “what is it that troubles you?” She closed her eyes, listening, feeling the tree’s anxiety over recent events, how Menegroth itself seemed to have turned against them, for the light of the sun and stars was not as bright as it had once been and shadows had begun to creep into the corners of the caverns that had once been so full of life. “I know,” Galadriel murmured, “these are hard times.” She concentrated, trying to remember what Melian, and Yavanna before her, had taught her. The tree seemed grateful for her touch and she could feel it drawing forth from her the energy that she offered to it. But there was another presence in the room now and she felt him as keenly as if there had been a thread stretched between their hearts.

“Celeborn,” she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment, basking in the pleasant wave of memories that always seemed to accompany him. Her back was to the door and she heard him approach, his strong arms going around her, drawing her up, turning her towards him, and she opened her eyes for an instant, catching a glimpse of his green ones, before she closed them again as he drew her into a deep kiss that nearly left her gasping for air. He had been to the baths and his skin and hair were still damp, the towel he wore around his waist his sole piece of clothing.

“Did you walk back from the baths like that?” She asked him and he nodded and shrugged. She laughed, shaking her head. She could not say she was surprised and yet, even after all these years, the more physically open attitudes of the Sindar still amused her.

“I am sorry,” he said, reaching out to brush his thumb across her cheek, “for my temper. I didn’t mean to make your evening unpleasant. When I was in the baths I could feel your sorrow nagging at my heart almost as though I bore it within myself.” It was a strange effect of the bond that they already had and it seemed to be growing stronger and stronger with each passing year. They could not yet feel one another’s emotions, as married couples often could, but they were gradually becoming aware of shifts in one another’s mood, and Galadriel wondered if it had anything to do with their plans to marry soon.

“I hate to damage your opinion of yourself, my love,” she said with a small smile, teasing him, reaching out to twine betwixt her fingers a tendril of damp silver hair that clung to his face. The rest of it he had tied up in a bun high atop the back of his head, “but it was not on your account that I was upset.”

“Is that so?” He asked, with a grin, catching her fingers in his hand. “You know what that does to me,” he murmured in response to her teasing, pressing a kiss to her fingers as he gave her a suggestive look. 

“You are incorrigible,” Galadriel told him with a shake of her head as she seated herself on the soft moss once more, leaning against a larger tree and drawing him down so that his head lay in her lap. She tugged his hair free from the high bun he had it in and idly began to play with his damp silver tresses as he looked up at her with his green eyes the color of pines.

“As you have told me many times,” he said with a grin. “Well Galadriel, what is it that is bothering you?”

She sighed in frustration. “I hardly know where to begin,” she told him.

“A feeling I have come to know all too well in recent years,” he said and Galadriel nodded her agreement.

“Yes, I think you must,” she said. The rest lay unsaid between them; they didn’t need to say it. She knew that he understood what she meant and she felt him take her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. There was nothing that either of them could say to make it better.

“There is something else,” he mused. “Your friend?” Galadriel nodded. “Have you had no messages from her?” He asked. “They are allowed to send them you know, when they are in prison.”

“Nothing,” Galadriel said. “I had thought…” she paused. “Perhaps I should go and see if I may speak with her. I almost feel as though I have been running from this whole matter.”

“I think you should go speak to her,” Celeborn said. “It would put your heart at rest. But you had better do it soon. They will be moving her soon for the trial.”

“Then I will go tomorrow,” Galadriel said. And she did, as soon as the council meeting was over. Celeborn had met her gaze as the counselors filed from the room and given her a nod of encouragement. He knew how much she was dreading this and yet she felt compelled to speak to Bainwen, to hear what she had to say, even if it was not something she wanted to hear. She could not shake the feeling that something was out of place, that there was something about all of this that was not quite right.

The thought plagued her as she made the long trek towards the prisons. She had never been there before and so she lost her way several times but at last arrived after asking for assistance from several guards. It was a dark and dank place so different from the rest of Menegroth that her first thought was horror that Bainwen had been detained here. No matter the fact that she had stolen her jewelry and betrayed her trust, Galadriel would never have wished for such a thing. Guilt gnawed at her heart.

She stepped over the threshold, lifting the full skirt of her royal blue silk dress so that it would not drag in the dry straw and shallow film of stagnant bilge water that coated the floor. There were several guards sitting on stools behind a table where they were playing some sort of card game and drinking what looked to be watered-down ale, but they abandoned their game as she approached and stood to greet her with modest bows. “You are the prison keepers?” She asked.

“Aye, Ladyship,” one of them said. “Anything we can help ye with?” Galadriel glanced around at the stone walls and the oil soaked torches that cast eerie flickering light into the dark shadows. Past the table was a long staircase leading into blackness that she could only assume led to the cells where the prisoners were kept.

“I was hoping that I might be able to visit with someone, a prisoner,” she said, drawing her attention away from the darkness and back towards the guards. 

“Ah, you’ll be meanin’ Bainwen then,” a guard with reddish blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail said, “always wondered what was takin’ ye so long.”

“Yes,” Galadriel said, a bit surprised that they seemed to know her intentions already. “But what do you mean?”

The guards exchanged nervous looks. “Well she wrote ye so often,” one of them said. “Ye see we ‘ave to read all their correspondence ‘fore it can be sent out on account o them tryin’ t’ make plans to escape an’ the like. Well she was always writing t’ye sayin she ‘ad t’ tell ye somethin’. We thought ye’d ‘ave come ‘fore now.”

“I never received any letters,” Galadriel said, perplexed, shaking her head. The dark feeling that had gripped her heart was growing. 

“But yer page always came to collect ‘em,” the blond guard said, his brow furrowed. 

“I don’t have a page,” Galadriel replied, feeling a strange sense of nausea growing in the pit of her stomach even as the darkness continued to clench her heart in its fist.

“Oh,” the guards looked at each other, just as perplexed as she was.

“Well if I can see her perhaps this can all be sorted out,” Galadriel said, growing anxious, but the guards only exchanged nervous looks and the blond one licked his lips, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry ladyship,” he said, “but that won’t be possible…”

“And why not?” Galadriel interrupted him, her eyes flashing with the beginnings of anger.

“She isn’t ‘ere any more,” the guard said. “There’s a penal colony on the Isle of Balar that we sometimes send prisoners to who ‘ave been sentenced t’ labor.”

“But she had not been tried yet!” Galadriel cried.

“Yes, but twas by order o’ the king ‘imself,” the guard told her. “The decree said she was to be moved there immediately and we ‘ad a group of prisoners being escorted there last night so we sent ‘er wit em. It said she wasn’t t’ go t’ trial no more.”

“That’s impossible,” Galadriel fumed. She didn’t mean to take her anger out on the guards but she was nearly in a panic now. “Show me the decree!” The soldiers jumped, looking even more nervous.

“Beg yer pardon m’lady,” the dark-haired guard said, “but we don’t ‘ave it no more. Order was t’ send it with ‘er to the master o’ the work camp.” Galadriel leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. _There was blood seeping from the cracks in the stone walls of Menegroth as if it were some great beast bleeding out its life. Blood was dripping from the trees, splattering on the ground._ She swallowed hard, collecting herself as Melian had taught her.

“Ladyship?” She heard the guard’s concerned voice. “Are ‘ye alright?” She nodded and opened her eyes.

“The king’s signature was on the decree, and his seal?” She asked, clarifying, and the guards nodded adamantly. 

“She did leave something fer ‘yer though,” the guard said. “We found it wedged up in the stone o’er cell. Thought the page might come fer it but we ain’t seen ‘im since she was taken away last night.” He reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a dirty slip of paper.

“Don’t know ‘ow she got the paper, and she didn’t ‘ave any ink,” he said, “but, well…” He didn’t need to say anymore because Galadriel could see that it was written in blood. “Cryptic ain’t it?” The guard said. “Like she was ‘fraid the wrong person ‘ould find it. Good thing ye came though.” 

Galadriel, look for the lie in that which you hold dear.

That was all it said and, though she must have read it ten times in the brief span of a second, Galadriel could not make any sense of it. “Yes it is,” she replied absentmindedly to what the guards had said. “Thank you,” and she nodded to them as she walked slowly from the prison, the scrap of paper still clutched in her hand. She folded it and put it in her pocket.

The lie in that which you hold dear… she tried to imagine who she held dear that might be lying to her. It was certainly not Celeborn. Melian…Melian she had hardly seen at all. Paniel perhaps, especially after the conversation she had overheard the day before. Thingol seemed an obvious choice and her feet were taking her there now, to his office. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, determined that she would get to the bottom of this, though she certainly did not welcome a confrontation with Thingol.

The guards outside the king’s door stood at attention as she approached and she steeled herself for a conversation with the king but, before she could speak they crossed their spears in front of her barring her way. “Apologies, Lady Ambassador,” one of them said, “but the king is occupied at the moment and I am afraid we shall have to ask you to wait.”

“I am afraid that I am not inclined to wait,” Galadriel replied, her anger and impatience already beating hot within her. “This is about a very important matter that needs the king’s attention urgently. You will allow me to pass.”

The guards paused, giving each other confused looks, but did not relent. “Lady Galadriel, I am afraid that is out of the question,” they told her. 

“You had better step aside lest I take one of your spears and beat you with it,” she said, fuming, for she was furious and she meant to ask Thingol what the meaning of all this was and why he had waived Bainwen’s right to trial. “A serious injustice has been done in this kingdom.” She reached for one of the spears and they moved to stop her but it had provided the distraction she wanted and she reached for the handle of the door instead, slipping past and into the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Your Majesty, you will explain to me your reasons for not allowing my friend due justice under the law!” She said, her eyes flashing with fury at Thingol as she did her best to hold the door shut against the guards who were hammering on it and shouting for her to come out. However, the first thing that she noticed was the Silmaril, blazing from where it sat upon the locked chest in which the king kept his seal. She had not seen the cursed thing since her days in Aman. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Thingol cried, springing up from his seat to tower over her and, tearing her eyes away from the Silmaril, Galadriel noticed for the first time that his eyes were rimmed red, that the king’s face was stained with the salt of dried tears.

“I…” she paused, glancing around to see that Celeborn and Mablung were there as well, startled and aghast to see that they too looked as though they had been weeping. “Celeborn,” she murmured, “what…what has happened?”

The guards took the opportunity of her distraction to force the door open, exclaiming their most profuse apologies to the king as they gripped Galadriel by the arms. She was far too distracted by the somber faces around her to struggle against them but it was Thingol who prevented her expulsion from the chamber, holding out his hand in a gesture that the guards should stop. They stilled, releasing their grip on her.

“She may stay,” Thingol said quietly and the guards bowed, murmuring their apologies once more before exiting the room. The king took a deep breath then, collapsing into his chair once more. “Had I imagined this would happen I would never have permitted him to leave,” Thingol said, clearly continuing a conversation that had started before she had entered, his voice thick with deep sorrow. 

“He was determined to go,” Celeborn said to Thingol in a shaking voice as he stood, taking Galadriel’s hand and leading her to the seat beside him. “We could not have dissuaded him, no matter what we said.”

“I too made numerous attempts to keep him from going but he had made up his mind,” Mablung said.

“Beleg is dead,” Celeborn whispered to Galadriel in response to her questioning look, reaching up to wipe away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes.

“But how and why?” Galadriel asked, greatly troubled, and Thingol only shook his head.

“That we do not know,” he said, “for the message did not say, nor did the sender identify him or herself. But it told us the place of his burial and I sent orders for the wardens in that area to investigate the matter. They found the grave just as was written.”

“I am very sorry about what happened to Beleg,” Galadriel said later as she lay, stroking Celeborn’s hair in bed. He had been very somber all evening and she knew he blamed himself, despite what he had said and despite her own assurances that it had been far out of his hands.

“It was Túrin. I am sure of it,” Celeborn said, his voice thick with anger, “for it was Túrin whom Beleg sought and Túrin has killed elves before.”

“You cannot know that,” Galadriel said, shaking her head, for she knew this line of thought would only cause him to grow more upset.

“I don’t need foresight to know it,” Celeborn said, “Beleg went seeking Túrin. They must have quarreled somehow. You saw how gravely he injured Saeros before he played his part in causing his death. Certainly I held no love for Saeros, but Túrin should never have acted as he did. I ought to have shot him when I had the chance. Thingol suspects him too, I am sure of it.”

“Celeborn…” Galadriel began, not quite knowing what to say to that, but Celeborn only sighed deeply.

“You needn’t waste your time trying to placate me,” he told her. “It isn’t Thingol, or Túrin, or Saeros, or Beleg for whom I bear anger, but in truth I am angry with myself. The last words I spoke to him were unkind and now I shall never speak to him again. I ought to have told him instead how much his friendship meant to me, how much I cared for him.”

“There is no use in second-guessing yourself now,” Galadriel told him. “But I am sure that Beleg knew how much you valued his friendship, even if he was angry with you for a while.”

“Perhaps,” Celeborn said, sighing and turning over so that his back was facing her, “only I wish I had told him.” He was silent for a long while and Galadriel, thinking he had fallen asleep, put out the candles and closed her eyes. But, momentarily, she felt him reach for her hand, turning over, gathering her into his arms. “Your friend, Bainwen,” he whispered, “I’ll find her. Then you can have the chance that I didn’t.”

But Bainwen proved more elusive than anyone might have presumed. “No trace of her,” Celeborn said as he entered the room, handing Galadriel the report from the march wardens. “The wardens were attacked by orcs near the Fens of Sirion and none were killed but some of the prisoners escaped during the skirmish. It seems she was one of these, though whether she survived in the wild or has been slain by orcs no one knows. What is certain is that she never arrived at the penal colony on the Isle of Balar.”

With a frown, Galadriel stood from where she had been sitting before the fire and took the report from Celeborn, perusing it with critical eyes. “All of this has been deliberate,” she said tersely. “Thingol said he never ordered her to be transferred and, indeed, the courts had not cancelled her trial at all.”

“It is very suspicious,” Celeborn said, crossing his arms over his chest. “She must have known something…”

“I am sure that she did,” Galadriel said, tossing the report down on the table in frustration and going to the next room to retrieve the message Bainwen had left behind from her jewelry box. She handed it to Celeborn and his green eyes scanned it quickly.

“It is nonsensical,” he delivered his verdict.

“I think it means that someone we know is keeping a secret from us,” Galadriel said, “something Bainwen knew or overheard. As Venessiel’s handmaiden she would have constantly been around important people. Perhaps she overheard something, saw something.”

“You should take this to Venessiel,” Celeborn told her, sounding very serious. “She has been distraught since we learned that Bainwen had been transferred. She thinks it is her fault, that this all could have been prevented had she visited the girl in prison. Perhaps if she saw it she would understand what Bainwen had meant. Perhaps she could remember something.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Galadriel said. “It isn’t good for her to be as upset about it as she is. I worry that it will cause harm to her child, especially seeing how close to giving birth she is now.” 

“Can you think of nothing strange that happened while you were serving with her?” Celeborn asked. “I know it was a long time ago but Mablung could use any leads you might have.”

“No…” Galadriel said, trying to remember as best she could, “I don’t think there was anything unless…”

“Unless what?” Celeborn asked and Galadriel looked around nervously before taking Celeborn’s arm and pulling him back with her down the hallway and all the way to the greenhouse where she stopped in the furthest possible corner.

“I overheard my handmaiden arguing with Mablung the night before we learned of Beleg’s death,” she whispered in Telerin, meeting Celeborn’s eyes.

“About what?” He asked, frowning. “Was he questioning her over Bainwen?” Galadriel shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “It was over a personal matter.”

“I was not aware that she and Mablung were acquainted,” he whispered. 

“She and Mablung may have been…romantically involved in the past.”

“Romantically involved?” Celeborn asked, raising an eyebrow. “That might be said for a number of women in this city.”

“Not like that,” Galadriel whispered. “I think this was serious. It sounded serious. She has told me before that someone proposed marriage to her once and, from the sound of what Mablung was saying, it was him.”

Celeborn scoffed and shook his head, raising his hands to tangle them in his hair in frustration. “Because that is exactly what I need right now – another march warden in love,” he said sarcastically. “But what does that have to do with any of this?”

“Celeborn, do you…do you know if Thingol had any…” she looked about again nervously, “any…spies stationed at Himlad?” Both of Celeborn’s silver brows shot up. He had clearly not been expecting that.

“The simple answer is that I don’t,” he replied, looking a bit confused, “but the longer one is that that is extremely sensitive information that is only exchanged between Thingol and Mablung. Even during the Battle of Beleriand I was only given information on spies on a need to know basis though I served as a general. But…” and now he looked around nervously, “I would assume that there certainly were. In fact, I generally assume that Thingol has spies everywhere. He is a master at intelligence gathering.”

“My handmaiden,” Galadriel whispered, “the girl you brought back from Himlad…I think she was stationed there as a spy.”

“What?” Galadriel had rarely seen Celeborn so shocked. “I thought you said you trusted her!” He said at last as Galadriel urged him to quiet his voice.

“I do trust her, at least I think I do,” Galadriel whispered. “But I know there are certain things she is not being truthful with me about – her age for one. From what she and Mablung were saying it sounds like they have known each other since they were quite young. I believed her…I trusted her until I heard her and Mablung arguing. Then I began to wonder how much of what she had told me was true and how much was false.”

“Galadriel,” Celeborn whispered, “I have gone to great lengths to ensure that my private life remains that: private. I’ll not have Thingol prying into our personal business. And if you do suspect that she is a spy then she may very well have something to do with all of this burglary business. She may lie to you in an attempt to gain your trust.”

“That is what I had been thinking,” Galadriel admitted, crossing her arms over her chest. “She was there as well when Bainwen and I were servants, she and Inwen, and Silevren, but I have no reason to suspect the other two.”

“Then perhaps you should dismiss her,” Celeborn said. 

“Better to keep her close and know what she is up to than to send her away and know nothing of her whereabouts or her business,” Galadriel whispered. She was surprised when Celeborn chuckled.

“Taking a page out of Thingol’s book I see,” he said. “That is exactly what he would say.” Celeborn seemed to ponder the idea for a moment and then said, “very well but we had better both keep a close eye on her and I think we should be more guarded about the conversations that we have in front of the servants.” Galadriel nodded her agreement.

“I hate to distrust her,” Galadriel said, “but I feel as though we have little choice but to do so.”

“Do you think her capable of forging the king’s signature and seal on that decree?” Celeborn asked and Galadriel shrugged.

“She is certainly capable of being covert, and of picking locks. The chest beside my vanity, she picked the lock when I was a servant so she could get at the letters that Finrod wrote to me. And, the lock I used to keep on there is nearly the same as the one that Thingol keeps on the chest containing his seal. I’ve seen it so many times and, when I saw it on his desk on the day that we learned of Beleg’s demise it made me think of her and I put two and two together, perhaps because I had just learned about Bainwen being sent away a few moments earlier so the idea was still fresh in my mind. And then, Celeborn…Bainwen seemed almost afraid to speak when she was captured, as if she was frightened of someone in the room. Paniel did look as though she was trying to kill her, the way she kept slamming her face into the floor…”

“Let us not jump to any conclusions,” Celeborn murmured. “The girl has served faithfully until now. There is even the possibility that Belegur or his agents have planted harmful rumors as they did about your people so long ago. All we can say for certain is that something is going on, something greater than all of us. Besides, there have been many strange events of late.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “Thingol asked that I give you these. There is one living in Nargothrond now of whom we have had report, a human named Mormegil.”

“There was no such man there when I was there,” Galadriel murmured, her brow furrowed as she leafed through the reports. “From Thingol’s spies?” She asked, nodding towards the documents.

“Yes,” Celeborn said. “But Thingol has said that he has no spies within the city of Nargothrond itself and thus this information is rather incomplete. It seems to mostly be rumors and chatter overheard in the taverns between here and Nargothrond, or from passing Noldorin patrols that our march wardens have encountered.”

“Does Thingol wish me to return to Nargothrond?” Galadriel asked and Celeborn shook his head.

“No,” he told her. “He deems it too dangerous. Our wardens have approached the stronghold and seen that a bridge leading into the city has been built across the river Narog. What is more, Orodreth has declared open warfare against Belegur.”

“What?” Galadriel exclaimed, her eyes going wide with surprise. “The fool!”

“That is what Thingol said,” Celeborn told her. “The one silver lining of this whole Túrin fiasco seems to be that the king has regained at least some of his sanity. He asks that you write to Orodreth and order him give some explanation for the bridge, his declaration of war, and the identity of this one called Mormegil.”

“Of course,” Galadriel said, disturbed by the news that Orodreth had done something so foolhardy. “I will do it straight away tomorrow.”

“It might also interest you to know that Túrin’s mother and sister have arrived tonight,” Celeborn said. Galadriel could sense the tension in his voice and see it in his eyes. She knew well how very little Celeborn had liked Túrin.

“Here?” She asked and Celeborn nodded.

“They came seeking Túrin,” he said. “We told them all we knew, save for the bit about me nearly shooting him, and Thingol offered them rest here for a while. But I think they shall be moving on soon in search of him.”

“I only knew him for the span of a few moments,” Galadriel said, “but it was easy to see that there was some shadow hanging over him.”

“Even I could see that,” Celeborn said, “and I haven’t even the gift of prescience.” Galadriel sighed and folded the papers.

“Let us hope that whatever shadow it is, it will not stretch out over us as well,” she said. Yet they hadn’t waited long before that hope was proved to be in vain and when the frantic pounding on the door and the clamor of guards’ voices had come, as it seemed it so often did in recent years, they had wordlessly slipped from bed, donning their dressing gowns, and followed the guards to the council chamber.

“I have some feeling it must be Orodreth,” Galadriel whispered in response to Celeborn’s questioning look as they made their way through the halls.

“I would not be surprised,” Celeborn said, his voice quick and quiet, “seeing as neither you nor Thingol have received replies from him.”

“It is because Orodreth is not the one in control. It is this Mormegil of whom we have had report, I am sure of it,” Galadriel said, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to keep her anger and frustration with her nephew from overwhelming her. She felt Celeborn reach out to take her hand. “It was the same with Curufin and Celegorm.” Celeborn could sense the tension in her so strongly that he felt his own shoulders grow tight as he gripped her hand in his.

They arrived to find the council chamber in a veritable uproar and many counselors and a few march wardens were still making their way into the chamber as well. Galadriel and Celeborn took their customary seats and Galadriel turned to Venessiel, who was sitting in the chair beside her and holding her heavily pregnant stomach, looking extraordinarily weary.

“I should have known that Oropher’s child would be ornery,” she gasped and then gripped the edge of the table, grunting as the child kicked from within her. Galadriel reached out, pressing her hand to the minister of the treasury’s abdomen, grinning as she felt the baby press his foot against her hand. Then the kicking began again, sharp, staccato taps against her palm. “Valar be damned,” Venessiel swore. “I’m ready for this baby to be out already.”

“It will be soon, will it not?” Galadriel said, reaching out to rub her friend’s back. Venessiel nodded.

“Any day now,” she said, grunting again. 

“Order!” Thingol cried, taking his seat at the head of the long table. Celeborn was seated at his side, the other ministers seated around the table, Saeros’s seat still conspicuously empty, and the captains of the march wardens lined the walls. It was unusual, Galadriel thought, for the wardens to be here. This must be some matter of security. And, once more, her mind ran nervously to Nargothrond.

The king’s eyes darted towards her and Galadriel swallowed hard. “Nargothrond has been sacked by Morgoth’s forces,” Thingol said, his voice deeply worried. “We have had numerous reports from spies and wardens in the area but, as none of our people were in Nargothrond itself, we do not yet know the particulars of what exactly occurred. What we do know is that Orodreth has been slain and many of his people have fled into the forest or been taken as slaves.”

Galadriel felt as though she had been punched in the stomach and for a moment she struggled to draw breath, feeling unshed tears begin to burn at her eyes, and she closed them tight, struggling to remain calm. She had certainly never been as close to Orodreth and Finduilas as she had to her brothers, but it was a cruel loss nonetheless, even if she had expected it. Orodreth had been too kind, too weak-willed to survive in Middle-Earth. She had seen it when she had been in Nargothrond, the expression in Celeborn’s eyes when she had told him of Orodreth’s behavior while she had been there had confirmed it. And Finduilas…such a sweet, innocent thing.

Her knuckles were white as she clenched the table and she felt a comforting hand reach out to take hers, holding it tightly – Venessiel. Galadriel drew a shuddering breath and looked back up, focusing once more on the king’s words. “The attack was led by the dragon Glaurung, Morgoth’s lieutenant,” Thingol was saying.

“Your Majesty, is there any word of Finduilas, Orodreth’s daughter?” Galadriel asked. 

“Not yet,” Thingol said, “but a great many refugees who escaped the sack are making their way towards Doriath even as we speak. She may number amongst them.”

“And will you allow them to enter within the girdle?” Galadriel asked, her voice thick with anxiety. “Please, you cannot leave them out there on the guarded plain. They will perish.”

“Do not fear, Galadriel,” Thingol told her, “I have ordered that all who seek admittance to Doriath from Nargothrond be allowed to pass into this kingdom and seek refuge in Menegroth. It is in fact,” he said, turning to the wardens who stood around the walls of the room, “why I have called all of you here. Captains, you will assemble your wardens and make your way to the guarded plain where you shall aid all refugees that you encounter and lead them within the protection of Menegroth if they so choose to accept that protection. I have already sent word to Círdan that many may be journeying south, seeking refuge with him as well.”

“Celeborn,” the king turned to his nephew, “you will see that all appropriate preparations are made to welcome the refugees into the city: food, clothing, housing, alert the healers. I believe from the initial reports that we may expect several thousand. Galadriel, you will assist Celeborn, try to make these people more comfortable. You will be more attentive to the needs of these Noldor than he can be. It might be frightening for them to come into a Sindarin kingdom. See that their worries are assuaged as best as possible and the two of you see what they can tell you. Perhaps they will be able to give us better information about what has happened. Also, Galadriel, I need you to send missives to the leaders of the Noldor requesting they tell us what they might know about these events.” 

Galadriel nodded. It was a great deal of work but she was grateful for it. It would keep her mind occupied, and, in her heart, she thanked Thingol, for she knew that he had remembered how assisting the refugees after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had eased her heart and she was certain that was why he had tasked her with this duty now.

The king turned to Mablung. “Take your most elite wardens and make for Nargothrond with all haste,” he said. “Do your best to remain unseen but gather any and all information that you can. You must leave immediately. It is of the utmost importance that we find out what has happened here and learn if Morgoth is on the move, if he plans to attack Doriath.”

“Of course,” Mablung made reply, “shall I…” But he never managed to finish his question, for Venessiel suddenly leaned forward against the table, gripping the edge of it tightly, and let out a roar of pain.

“The baby,” Thingol said simply, as if in shock.

“The baby!” some of the other counselors exclaimed. Venessiel roared again, banging her fist upon the table.

“You all have your orders!” Thingol cried. “Now carry them out!” Meanwhile, Galadriel helped Venessiel stand, wrapping her arm around the woman’s waist, supporting her.

“Somebody send for Oropher!” Thingol was shouting overtop of the great hubbub that had arisen. 

Venessiel was a good deal quieter when giving birth than Inwen had been but Galadriel wondered sleepily why it seemed that the children of Doriath’s princes always seemed to want to be born in the middle of the day when everyone was sleeping. She closed her eyes sleepily and leaned back in her seat only to open them a moment later. It was nearly impossible to sleep with Oropher pacing about as he was. But then again, tired though she was, Galadriel doubted she could find sleep at all, even if the expectant father hadn’t been pacing, for her mind kept turning to Finduilas, wondering if she was alive, where she was.

Celeborn kept trying to make conversation with his cousin but Oropher was unbelievably tense and made only one word replies so that at last Celeborn sat in silence. Everyone was there except for Galathil, Inwen, and Nimloth, who were away visiting Beren, Lúthien, and their son Dior. Nimloth was only a little older than Dior and so Galathil had deemed that Dior might be a good influence on his headstrong daughter. Thingol was sitting in his nightshirt and dressing gown, a benign smile upon his face and Melian, making a rare appearance, was at his side in a long silver gown, her hand clasped in her husband’s, and Galadriel wondered if at last they had begun to reconcile.

“It will be you next,” Celeborn said with a grin, nudging Galadriel with his elbow and it took her a moment to realize what he meant – a moment in which he realized the mistake he had made. “Galadriel, I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking her hand in his and rubbing it gently. “I forgot for a moment, let my mouth run away with me.”

“I know,” she said softly. “It’s alright.” But it wasn’t. She had seen the smile, the hopeful look in his eyes as he had said it, and she knew that their recent decision not to have children had still not erased the centuries long dreams they had had of starting a family of their own, dreams that now lay shattered and broken.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her, drawing her into his arms, holding her tight.

“She’s certainly taking long enough,” Oropher said impatiently, and they all knew that it was merely his own strange way of expressing his concern.

“This is a Sindarin prince or princess we are talking about,” Thingol said with a grin, “ a true Sinda. And a true Sinda likes nothing better than to stay in a cave.”

“Thingol!” Melian exclaimed at the lewd joke, slapping her husband’s arm. Thingol only laughed and Celeborn and Oropher snorted with restrained laughter.

“I am sure that everything is alright,” Thingol said, rising. “These are the best midwives in the kingdom and they would have let us know if something was the matter.” The king’s words seemed to be little comfort to Oropher, who merely clenched his jaw all the more tightly, hunched his back, and continued stalking back and forth across the room. “Celeborn,” the king said, turning to the older prince, “might I have a word.”

Celeborn glanced towards Galadriel, who was still resting her head against his shoulder, but she assured him that she was well and so he stood, slipping out into the quiet and deserted hallway after the king. The door clicked closed behind them and Thingol turned to face Celeborn, taking a deep breath. The prince already had a good idea of what it was that the king wanted to say. He had noticed the gradual softening in Thingol in the years after Túrin had left, seen the remorse in his eyes at the news of Beleg’s death, seen the return of the king’s old confidence tonight in the council chamber.

“I want you to know,” Thingol began, his eyes meeting his nephew’s, his voice sounding oddly shaky, “that this foul business with Túrin has put everything in a new perspective for me.” He paused before continuing. “It was never the case,” he said, “that I was unaware of what I was doing and I know that makes all of the things I have done all the worse. I knew all these years that it was wrong, that I was hurting the people I loved the most, and that you were not least among them. It was not because of anyone else that I nearly lost Melian…nearly lost you, but because of my own actions. Celeborn…” his voice cracked and Celeborn waited in silence for the king to continue, his own heart troubled, not entirely sure what to think or feel. 

“The things I have done to you are inexcusable,” Thingol said and Celeborn knew by the pain in his eyes that he was truly repentant. “They are unforgiveable: I hurt you, I manipulated you, I abused you. I let my fear and pain get the better of me and I used it to injure those I love. You would be perfectly justified if you were to tell me that you no longer wanted me to play any part in your life and yet…if there is any chance for reconciliation whatsoever, if there is any way that I can right my wrongs or earn your forgiveness then I would gladly do it.”

Thingol drew yet another shuddering breath and said, “I do not know if you have yet arranged for who will stand with you and Galadriel at your wedding but Melian was thinking that, as Galadriel has no family left now, if it were agreeable to the two of you then Melian and I would gladly do it. However, I know that you may not wish this, rightfully so, and if that is your decision then we will abide by it. What I am trying to say, Celeborn,” Thingol paused, “is that I am sorry, extremely sorry for all that has passed between us.”

Celeborn stood silent for a moment, hands folded before him, for he was not quite sure how he felt and it seemed that there was a great mixture of emotions coursing through him. He did still bear a good deal of anger towards Thingol and yet he was reluctant to throw away what had been a happy relationship for over a thousand years, especially in the wake of this apology. And then he wondered whether, if anything were to happen to Thingol as it had to Beleg, he could ever forgive himself. Still, he was not quite sure if he could bring himself to ever trust the king again.

“I appreciate this,” he said to Thingol, being honest as the king had been honest with him, “and yet I must admit that my heart and mind are conflicted.”

“Of course,” Thingol said, sounding very nervous.

“That is not to say that all is lost,” Celeborn said quickly to reassure him. “I only mean that I will need some time to think and that I will need to speak to Galadriel before I can give you any reasonable reply.”

“Certainly, certainly, take your time…” Thingol stammered but just then the door opened to reveal Melian and the sounds of a screaming child issued forth.

“The child is born,” she whispered with a smile and Celeborn and Thingol quickly returned to the houses of healing to find that Oropher had only just then come forth, bearing a small, screaming bundle in his arms.

“A loud one!” Thingol exclaimed with a laugh. “And the hair?” He whispered, turning to Melian.

She shook her head. “Gold,” she said.

“No matter,” Thingol said to her, “this child is a welcome gift.” Oropher came forward then, bearing the baby in his arms, and they all stood. The prince was carrying his child with great care, as though he nearly feared he would break the babe simply by holding it and, instead of his customary scowl, his whole face was lit with a brilliant smile. He looked up at them all then, though it looked as though it took nearly all of his strength to look away from the child.

“A prince is given to us,” he said. “This is my son, Thranduil.” He spoke as though he was still in awe and his voice could hardly be heard over the baby’s squalling. “Your highness,” he said to Thingol, “if you would do Venessiel and I the honor of holding him we would be most grateful.” And, having so said, he passed the baby carefully to the king, who happily accepted.

“Thranduil,” Thingol said, looking down into the tiny, red, scrunched face of the baby, “a fine name. He is certainly vigorous.” But Thranduil only howled all the louder. 

“And he has a strong set of lungs,” Melian quipped, causing them all to laugh as Thingol passed her the baby. Thranduil seemed to like Melian and stopped howling for a moment, wrapping his tiny red hand around the queen’s finger. Melian laughed and pressed a kiss to the babe’s head before handing him to Galadriel.

“He’s beautiful,” Galadriel said, cradling the child close, looking at him with awe in her eyes. “This golden hair…” she gently touched the golden tuft on the baby’s head and Celeborn felt his heart ache for her, knowing what she must be thinking. But she turned to him, offering him the baby and, the second that Celeborn took him into his arms Thranduil began to scream again.

“Perhaps he only likes the ladies,” Thingol joked, Oropher cracked a grin, and they all laughed.

Yet Galadriel had remained unusually silent after they had returned to their chambers and she was silent as they climbed into bed, as they blew out the candles, as they lay there on their backs in tense silence. “The child…” Celeborn began to say.

“No,” Galadriel interrupted before the words had hardly left his mouth.

“It is the wedding,” Celeborn said then.

“War makes some things pointless,” Galadriel replied bitterly, turning her back to him in the dark.

*****

**Footnotes:** I promise that despite Galadriel’s moodiness at the end here there will definitely be a wedding in the next chapter. It’s going to be fun!!!! Yay!

If you have any more questions for Chapter 40 please let me know! You guys have been coming up with great questions so far. But, of course, that’s no surprise because you are awesome ;)


	35. Consummation

  
**Consummation**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 35th Chapter

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny,  
but in ourselves."

_\- William Shakespeare_

*****

**Author’s note:** WARNING! This chapter is really emotional and intense so you might not want to read it in public, just saying.

In answer to some questions: Oh prison….good memories…I actually had an aunt who was in prison for a long time so I am, unfortunately, intimately familiar with the prison system. It took Bainwen about 5 years to come to trial. In real life it usually takes at least a year, at least where I live and from my experience with jury duty, and usually longer if the accused is withholding evidence, as Bainwen was because Mablung was having a hard time getting her to talk. It is also kind of my head canon that elven bureaucracy moves slowly since they have unlimited time, and it just generally takes elves longer to do things. In the Silm Thingol never really seems like he is in a rush to settle things, pass judgment etc. But, as we will find out in the next chapter, there were also some other more nefarious reasons that it was taking Bainwen’s case so long and why she wouldn’t talk. It is also just really difficult to be able to visit someone in prison. It takes a long time and you usually have to go through all sorts of background checks, get approved, etc. so it is really a big hassle. 

As for why Galadriel didn’t go to her sooner, Galadriel kind of has a history in this story of being a weenie about personal conflict (with Celeborn, Lúthien, and Melian after she returned to Doriath) and avoiding or procrastinating confrontation unless she feels like she has no other choice but to confront it. There have been a few instances where she has really let relationships slip because she didn’t want to deal with the conflict. Other people have noticed this and are taking advantage of it. I think she has gotten a bit better about it, especially with Celeborn, but she still struggles with it. Celebrimbor is really going to make her face this in the sequel ;)

Hey guys so I was going to do the Galathil author’s note this week but I haven’t had time to write it yet and I know you guys are really waiting for this chapter with a lot of anticipation so I will do the character note next week! Enjoy!

*****

Galathil and Inwen had returned from Tol Galen in a far fouler mood than either of them had set out in and the reason was immediately apparent, for Nimloth had not returned with her parents, which greatly puzzled the welcome party waiting outside the gates of Menegroth. Thingol had raised a questioning eyebrow at Galathil but it was the usually kind and gentle Inwen who had replied, with great fury, her dark eyes flashing, saying, “the apple does not fall far from the tree!”

“Brother?” Celeborn, his heart filled with worry, had approached Galathil, taking his arm as the grooms led the horses away. “Has something happened to Nimloth? Why has she not returned with you?”

Galathil heaved a great sigh and, his jaw clenched tight in irritation, gave his brother a dark look and said, “we thought it might be nice for Nimloth to make a friend closer to her own age.” He shook his head. “And friends they were for a while, then closer friends, and closer friends, and then one day Nimloth’s stomach began to swell…”

Celeborn did not even attempt to make any pretense at sympathy for his brother, but doubled over immediately in raucous laughter. Thingol expelled a deeply held breath from his nose, his lips disappearing into a thin line, his silver brow furrowed in displeasure. “Will all the members of Elmo’s line continue to perpetrate this unfortunate tradition?” Thingol growled. 

“Dior is of your line and equally as culpable,” Melian said unassumingly, in an overly innocent tone, and Thingol turned to his wife with a look of surprise, his mouth hanging open, his eyes questioning, and then the queen burst into laughter and Thingol, at last, finally cracked a grin and shook his head. 

“I suppose it is a tradition that I started, after all,” Thingol conceded and they all adjourned to the feast that had been prepared for the return of Galathil and Inwen. It was a rather more intimate affair than normal, held in the king’s banquet hall rather than the great hall, and most of those present were close kin. Only the two parents of the unexpected bride were still in a foul mood over the surprising marriage but they too gradually began to soften as the night wore on.

“Now that I have thought about it more,” Celeborn remarked to Galathil, spearing a roast parsnip with his knife, “I cannot say that I am very surprised. Nimloth has always been strong willed and somewhat prone to impetuous decisions.”

Galathil’s eyes darkened. “I would not say ‘impetuous’ so much as I would say ‘stupid’,” he said and Celeborn stopped eating for a moment, slightly puzzled.

“I don’t mean to blame you, brother,” he said, worrying he had cause offense.

“No, I do not think you did,” Galathil said tersely.

“I was only thinking that as your and Inwen’s marriage worked out so well…”

“It is not the same,” Galathil interrupted his brother in a low voice, meeting his gaze. Celeborn leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and cocking his head questioningly.

“What do you mean?” He murmured, glancing about to make sure that no one was listening and Galathil sighed, leaning forward as well.

“I do not like Dior,” Galathil whispered and Celeborn raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He is not like his parents…” he shook his head. “It is perhaps only because he is so young. He has little experience yet he accounts himself wise, his skill with the sword is very good, but not nearly as good as he thinks it is. He spends his time hunting, and shooting, and giving very little attention to his studies.”

“Are not all young elves the same though?” Celeborn asked. “Surely Beren and Lúthien will set him straight with just a little more time. He is only 27 after all.”

“And Nimloth is 54,” Galathil grumbled. “That is old enough that she ought not to have been so easily enchanted by the simpering words of a scrawny adolescent elf. But I do not know, Celeborn…” he said. 

“Know what?” Celeborn asked. 

“They are changed,” Galathil said, glancing about the table once more to make sure that he was not overheard, “Beren and Lúthien…are grown old almost. It is so very strange,” he mused. “There was gray in Beren’s beard.” Celeborn recalled his own surprise upon glimpsing Húrin when he had come to Menegroth, and seeing grey in the man’s hair. He had not understood, at first, that it was a sign of age amongst humans. “That and they seemed as if they were…I don’t know quite how to say it,” Galathil said, pausing, his eyes filled with confusion. 

“They were slower, frailer it seemed…tired almost, but perpetually so,” he continued at last. “When we would walk with them in the gardens we often had to stop so that they could rest or sit, though Inwen and I were not weary at all. And when we would ride, Beren could not keep up with his son. I did not understand what it was to grow old, Celeborn, not until I saw them.”

“And so,” Galathil paused, his fingers poised on the rim of his goblet, a look of grave concern on his face, “I would say that perhaps with more guidance and discipline Dior might become as worthy a man as his father was of old…but I worry that it is already too late. They are too weary, they lack the energy to continue his training as they ought. I think, Celeborn, that all they have been through has aged them even more than humans normally age, made them old before their time. Surely…I do not think it unreasonable…for I have heard even that it can happen to some elves…some of those who were enslaved. It is said that Gwindor, who was betrothed to Galadriel’s niece looked as an old man ere he died, though he was of the Eldar.”

It was stunning news and Celeborn sat back, still trying to understand all of it. “Dior is not the man I would have chosen for her,” Galathil murmured, his eyes darting towards his brother’s.

“It seems there is nothing that can be done about it now,” Celeborn said. “If they are already married and there is a child to be considered…”

“Children,” Galathil murmured and Celeborn blinked, “twins.”

“Oh,” Celeborn was taken aback. “Grandchildren are a blessing though, are they not?” He said hesitantly and Galathil buried his face in his hands.

“I cannot believe I will be a grandfather,” he said with a great sigh, raising his head again and Celeborn laughed.

“And before I have even married too,” he said. That brought a grin to Galathil’s face.

“That is true indeed,” Galathil said with a laugh, the opportunity to poke a little fun at his brother brightening his face as always. “At this rate you and Galadriel shall never marry. Perhaps it is because you do not know where to put it that you delay.”

“I know where to put it,” Celeborn growled with a grin. “And you know very well that the date has been set and that we shall be married soon.”

“So you say,” Galathil said with a wink. “Well I shall believe it when I see it. But tell me, how fares your lady? For we heard of what has passed in Nargothrond and, indeed, I was surprised to see the masons hard at work yet again as we passed through the city on our way to the banquet. I did not know that the dwarves had returned.”

“Just the dwarves of Belegost,” Celeborn said, “not those of Nogrod, not yet, not ever I hope. I still do not trust them, not after that mess between them and Thingol. But as it was the dwarves of Belegost who helped us build Menegroth we needed their help to expand the city. There were many refugees from Nargothrond and it was not so very long ago that we received refugees after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as well. We had no space to put them.”

“They’re delving new caves then?” Galathil asked and Celeborn nodded. “Who would have ever thought that there would be so many Noldor living in Menegroth?” Galathil said with a laugh.

“Nargothrond’s fall was a cruel blow to Galadriel of course,” Celeborn said. “Still, I do rather believe that she was expecting it. Orodreth was never fit to rule and once Mormegil, well, Túrin as we later learned, had taken control of the city and declared war against Belegur it was all but over for Nargothrond.”

“You should have shot him when you had the chance,” Galathil grumbled.

“I remind myself of that often enough without you doing it too,” Celeborn replied with a grin. He glanced down the table to where he could see that the ladies were speaking and caught Galadriel’s eye. It was not that the fall of Nargothrond had been particularly upsetting, or at least not any more than the deaths of her brothers had been, but he worried that it was all of the hardships that she had been through combined that were the cause for her recent unrest. 

The visions were getting worse lately and she often awoke trembling, sweating, crying, reaching for him in the night murmuring strange words into his chest as she clung to him for dear life. “What is it?” He had often asked her but she had only shaken her head.

“I do not know,” she confided in him. “I can only see bright flashes of light anymore. I am not sure what it signifies.”

He could feel that same sense of unease running between them now like a current and Galadriel sighed, giving him one last glance before she turned her attention back to the conversation she was having with Inwen, Venessiel, and Melian.

“He cries constantly!” Venessiel exclaimed, running a hand through her unusually messy hair, and her face, with growing dark marks beneath her eyes and hastily applied makeup, bore ample evidence that she was not, in fact, exaggerating about how much Thranduil cried and how little sleep she was getting. Melian and Inwen nodded sympathetically.

“Lúthien was a very quiet baby, but she was always getting into all sorts of mischief nevertheless,” Melian said, resting her chin in her hand.

“Nimloth was very fussy as well,” Inwen said, patting Venessiel’s hand. “But even she was not as fussy as Thranduil I think.”

“Everyone said he would calm down after the first year but, if anything, I think he may be getting worse!” Venessiel exclaimed, seeming as though she was nearly on the verge of tears. “And Oropher is a mess of course. The sound of the baby crying makes him mad with worry and he will sit up all day and night trying to calm him to no avail.”

“It is not your fault, my dear,” Melian said gently. “This is the way that babies are.” But Venessiel just shook her head in frustration and looked down at her growing stomach with despair. 

“What in all Arda were we thinking?” She cried. “What if this next child is just as ornery as our Thranduil?”

Galadriel sat listening quietly as the other women did their best to console Venessiel. As for herself, she hardly felt qualified to do so seeing as she never had had a child and never would. It made her feel unreasonably bitter, though she and Celeborn had spoken of it several times and though he had assured her time and again that he did not mind if they never had children. Something about it made the curse of Mandos seem all the more real, all the more present, all the more inescapable. When she had left Aman she had longed for an extraordinary life; now all she wanted was an ordinary one and even that was impossible.

“Did you speak to Lúthien of the wedding?” Galadriel asked, turning to Inwen, and the dark haired woman nodded, though her reticence to answer the question was apparent, and Galadriel felt her heart sink. “She isn’t coming,” Galadriel said, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Inwen said softly, turning to clasp Galadriel’s hands in her own. “She’s very sorry, Galadriel. She told me to give you her most profuse apologies but she cannot find it in her heart to return. This place holds too many bad memories for her. She…” Inwen fumbled in her pockets, “she asked me to give you this…” She held out a letter, sealed with Lúthien’s seal, and Galadriel took it rising, her cup in her other hand.

“Are you alright?” Melian asked worriedly, moving as if to stand, but Galadriel signaled that she ought to sit again.

“I would just like to read it in private, thank you,” she said, with a nod and a feigned smile. She knew none of them were fooled, least of all Melian, who still seemed to bear a great deal of guilt for having told Galadriel the prophecy, but at the moment she simply wished to be alone. She made her way out of the palace, out of the city, and at last into the willow grove. It was one place at least where, amongst the calm and gentle trees, the soft mosses, and the delicate beautiful flowers, she could find some measure of peace.

She opened the letter and read it. It did not tell her anything that she did not already know and, presently, she folded it back up again, tucking it in her bodice before taking a drink of her wine. Celeborn was approaching. She could feel him. And she closed her eyes, drinking in his presence as the memory of a hot summer’s day flooded her mind with the sun’s light and she saw him walking along the banks of the Sirion, a smile upon his face as he watched the fish dancing in the water. She managed a small smile as she opened her eyes, leaving the memory behind as she looked up at him.

“Finduilas…she was such a sweet girl,” she said, wrapping her arms around her as the chill autumn breeze tousled her hair. Celeborn sat at her side, watching her silently. “She didn’t deserve an end like that, impaled by a spear…pinned to that tree…” her words were bitter but her tears had long since been spent. She turned her golden goblet in her hands, staring down at her face reflected in starlight on the surface of the red wine therein, and sighed. “I kept hoping, kept looking for her…Every time that yet another survivor entered the hall I would look up…expecting to see her face…” she shook her head and Celeborn remained silent.

He deemed it condescending to say that very few got either the life or death they deserved, patronizing to agree with her. Galadriel already knew the unfairness of death but he knew that she needed to speak her heart, if only to free herself of the burden. What she needed now was commiseration, not advice. “I knew it was Túrin who slew Beleg, but I ought to have guessed as well that he was this Mormegil we heard so much of,” he murmured, shaking his silver head. “He still believed that Thingol sought to punish him after the incident with Saeros. Of course he would go by an alias.” He drank from his own wine.

“It isn’t your fault,” Galadriel murmured. “It isn’t anyone’s fault. Nobody anticipated this. Nobody wanted this. Orodreth was the only one who could have stopped it and yet we cannot even fully blame him for being put in a position he never asked for, never wanted, and could not rid himself of.”

“Something tells me that the reason you have been so distant lately runs far deeper than Nargothrond,” Celeborn said softly. Galadriel reached out for him and he drew her into his arms where the steady beat of his heart drumming in his chest, as solid and real as the earth itself, provided her with great comfort and she sighed. She had not known herself what was the matter, not until tonight.

“War makes some things pointless,” she murmured, tears springing to her eyes though they did not fall. “I can hardly imagine a wedding now. Who would come?” She shook her head, taking a ragged breath. “Who…who will stand by my side? My brothers are dead, and now Orodreth and Finduilas as well, I know that Lúthien will not return for our wedding. Who…who on earth would want to come to such a wedding?” She reached up, wiping away tears. “Maybe we should just…I don’t know…do it and have done with it,” she said. “What use is there? Menegroth once seemed to me as though it lived and breathed just as surely as you and I but now… it seems so dark, and distant, and cold.” She heaved a deep sigh and wiped her tears away again.

Celeborn reached out and pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her temple, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his. “Galadriel,” he cradled her face in his hands, turning her eyes up so that all of the stars were reflected in them but she saw not the stars, and only his green eyes looking back at her. “Do you trust me?” He asked her and she nodded, swallowing her tears. “Then know that I know Doriath, and I know Menegroth and I tell you there is life yet within her, Galadriel, enough for the grandest, most spectacular wedding that anyone has ever seen. Morgoth is not here,” he said. “He is far away to the North. Do not let his fear enter your heart, do not allow it to rob you of what you should have.”

“I have a hard time imagining,” he said quietly then, “that any of your brothers would have wanted you to live a life filled with nothing but mourning. Your parents may be far away, Galadriel, and I have never met them myself, but do you not think they would wish you happiness and joy? Don’t you think they would want you to have a splendid wedding? Do not live your life according to the wrongs that Morgoth has perpetrated. Instead, live it the way that those you love would have wished you to live,” he said. “Let us have the wedding that Finrod, Aegnor, and Angrod would have wanted for you. Let us celebrate their memories,” he implored her.

“But…Celeborn,” she said, “it is your kingdom, not mine, and your people, not mine…”

“Do you still feel an outsider after all this time?” He asked her, concerned. “You love Doriath and Doriath loves you.”

“It isn’t that,” she assured him. “It is just that…well…” she lapsed into silence. It felt silly, somehow, to complain about a wedding when there were so many people with far worse problems. But Celeborn, as ever, has sensed what was the matter.

“Melian and Thingol have offered to stand by us if you wish it,” he said quietly, pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Thingol wants to make amends, if he can, but I was not sure how you would feel about it.” 

She turned in his arms, facing him, and said, “what do you wish?”

He met her gaze, half afraid that his words would hurt her, and yet he was determined to give her nothing less than the truth. “I wish to forgive,” he said. “This kingdom has been filled with hatred, and bitterness, and fighting for the past century and longer. I would not perpetuate this, even if it be to my own detriment. Rather, I wish to show compassion and understanding…as I have learned from your example.”

Galadriel smiled, reaching up to touch his hair, letting the silver strands slip through her fingers like water. “You know,” she said softly with a grin, “all those years ago when Finrod and I first arrived in Menegroth Melian said you were very wise and then she gave your counsel to Finrod as his present, so that your wisdom might aid him. And do you know what I was thinking then?” She asked coyly.

“I am beginning to have some idea,” Celeborn said with a laugh, “but tell me anyhow.”

“I was wishing that she had given you to me instead,” she whispered.

“And I was wishing the same,” he grinned, kissing her gently.

“Poor Finrod,” Galadriel said.

“Yes, poor Finrod,” Celeborn replied, kissing her. He hungered for her, for all of her, for that fast approaching moment in which he would know her in her entirety and be known in turn. His lips lingered on hers for a moment and then he opened his eyes, feeling her smile against his mouth.

“Are we really getting married, Celeborn?” She asked then, turning her eyes up to look at him and he laughed. 

“We are,” he said, “we really are.”

*****

Melian had recommended the seamstress, an astute looking elf with mousy brown hair and deft fingers that pulled and plucked pins from bolts of satin and silk which she laid out for Galadriel to examine. There were greens as rich as the leaves of trees, reds with all the depth of rubies, whites as perfect as snow, blues like the depths of the Sirion. They were all so beautiful and Galadriel ran her fingers over the finely stitched patterns that decorated them: herons in flight, sprigs of maple leaves, blossoming flowers, ethereal clouds. 

“What color would you like, Lady Ambassador?” The seamstress said, holding up bolts of gold, and silver, and white to Galadriel’s skin, admiring each in turn. “White suits you,” the woman said, but Galadriel shook her head.

“No, not white,” she said, pausing and looking over the array of colors, “and not gold either I think…” she bit her lip and then looked up, decided. “Green,” she said, “green to match his eyes.” The seamstress winked and began unfurling bolts of beautiful greens, some as dark as pines, others the delicate pale green of sea foam. Galadriel marveled at them all but she knew which one she would choose: the one with the glossy, bright, verdant sheen of beech leaves in summer stitched in an elegant pattern, the embroidered leaves veined in pale gold thread. This one, she ran her fingers across the smooth silk, this one reminded her of the great beech trees of Doriath, whose leaves were the same color as Celeborn’s eyes.

“A fine choice,” the seamstress said. “It will make a lovely wedding gown.” And then her assistants were practically swarming around Galadriel, taking her measurements, tugging her this way and that, a host of butterflies as bright and cheery as the sun, as colorful as wildflowers in the summer. 

It only took them a matter of a few weeks to sew the gown but to Galadriel it seemed but a moment in which she shut her eyes and opened them again to find herself arrayed in the colors of the forest as the seamstresses conducted the final fitting. And, as she gazed into the mirror, seeing her reflection there, she remembered so well the night that she had first danced before the court of Doriath, the way that she had looked in the mirror and been surprised upon seeing the face staring back at her: a Noldorin girl in Sindarin clothing.

The cut of the dress was foreign: the low neckline, her bared arms, the long, loose, sweeping skirt. The style was very Sindarin as well; the embroidery in pale gold thread had not the baroque extravagance of Noldorin garments, but rather the subtle and unassuming beauty of Sindarin ones: pale gold on green like sunlight slipping through leaves, the dappled glow of morning in the forest. It was beautiful and for a moment her breath caught in her throat as she realized that this was yet another new beginning…and not only the gown… She reached up, her fingers touching the fabric with awe. 

This marriage was a new beginning. And, for the first time it struck her exactly why the prospect of a formal wedding had frightened her so. It was also an end. When she would stand before the kingdom and publicly pledge herself to Celeborn there could never be any going back to what she was or what she had been. Just as when they had first kissed, part of her would be closed off forever and left behind, the door would be shut and another opened. With each step she took forward it seemed she shed some other part of herself and entered more fully into a world unknown.

Of course, it was not as though she despised this new role. Indeed, she loved Celeborn dearly and besides, this marriage would bring her closer than she had ever been to a throne of her own, but it was a rather daunting task indeed to consider that she was about to become the wife of a Sindarin prince - her hand hovered over her abdomen – most especially knowing that she would never bear him an heir. The criticism would come, she knew, as the years ticked by and their marriage bore no fruit. And, what if something happened? True, there was less to worry about now that Dior was the crown prince and Celeborn was not…but what if the visions were true? She tried to push the worries from her mind but they kept cropping up. 

What if Celeborn was ever put in a position to lead his people? Would they reject him because he had taken a Noldorin wife? Would they refuse to follow him because of her? And…could she do it? Could she be a proper Sindarin wife? She took a deep breath. Of course, she knew what Celeborn would say, she knew he would tell her that it didn’t matter to him, so long as he had her; but it mattered to her. She wanted to do things right. She tried to reason with herself, remembering that she had, after all, served the Sindar as an ambassador and the resistance to her had been minimal. Still, the stakes seemed higher now; it wasn’t just she who might suffer for her failures, but Celeborn as well. _That is what marriage is,_ she thought, _sharing in both the failures and the successes._ The oft repeated line was of precious little comfort.

“His Royal Majesty, Elu Thingol, King of Doriath and all Beleriand arrives!” Galathil’s cry shocked her out of the thoughts in which she had become ensnared and she looked up in wide-eyed surprise as the seamstresses scurried to the side, dipping into low bows.

“Your Royal majesty!” Galadriel exclaimed, wondering why he was here, as Thingol appeared in a flurry of blue robes, a flashing grin, and silver hair, heralded by Galathil who stood at attention now, hands clasped behind his back, grinning like a cat. Galadriel could tell he had something he wanted to say but that he was refraining for propriety’s sake, to allow the King to speak first.

“Galadriel,” Thingol said with a polite nod, standing before her. “It seems I have come at an inopportune time.” But, in typical fashion, the King seemed as though he was rather unperturbed by this and showed no signs of exiting the room.

“No, no,” Galadriel assured him. “It is quite alright.” 

“My!” Thingol took a step back, appraising her with a glimmer of laughter in his eyes and a broad smile on his handsome face. “I must say you are looking stunning. Celeborn will certainly be at a loss for words!”

“Just wait till he sees you,” Galathil interjected with a broad grin, unable to hold his thoughts in any longer, and Thingol gave his nephew a gentle look of disapproval.

“You are not to tell him, either of you,” Galadriel instructed them sternly, wondering why they were here. “You may not tell him even the color of the gown. It is to be a surprise.”

“I would never dream of ruining such a thing for you,” Thingol said with a laugh, his eyes twinkling. 

“Has there been some news from one of the Noldorin princes or…” Galadriel began but Thingol shook his silver head and held up a hand.

“Nay,” he said, “it is purely on a personal matter that I have come,” and he gestured to the manservant that accompanied him, who was carrying a small chest of silver. Galadriel had thought that it almost certainly contained the Silmaril, for Thingol hardly went anywhere without it these days, but the king opened the chest and took from within it something that Galadriel had not seen now in many long years.

“The Elessar,” she gasped. It twinkled there in the light, just as beautiful as ever, an array of brilliant greens clasped within purest silver.

“I have heard,” Thingol said, his voice fatherly, his eyes kind, and for a moment Galadriel felt her breath catch in her throat as she remembered her own father, wished that he were here, “that it is a wedding custom amongst your people for the groom’s family to give a jewel to the bride and for the bride’s family to give a jewel to the groom. Now I find myself playing the part of both the bride and the groom’s family.”

“It…it is,” Galadriel said, rather surprised. She hadn’t expected this. Thingol reached out, taking the Elessar from the chest, and it hung there, casting its verdant, sunny light about the room as it slowly turned back and forth on its silver chain.

“May I?” Thingol asked quietly and Galadriel nodded, feeling the tears brimming in her eyes. She had not expected to feel so alone prior to the wedding but she was glad, very glad, that they had decided to allow Thingol and Melian to stand with them at the ceremony. The small step towards forgiveness had eased a great burden from her heart and now, as Thingol clasped the Elessar about her neck and stepped back, nodding his head as if to indicate his approval, she felt her heart swell with joy.

“You gave this to me once, Galadriel,” the king said then, “as a pledge that your repentance was sincere and in the hope that it would heal past wounds. Now I offer it to you for the same reason. Perhaps you cannot forget all that has passed between us and I do not expect you to, but I hope that I can earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes. Weddings are…” he paused, his blue eyes meeting hers, “weddings are an opportunity for all sorts of new beginnings and so I want you to know, Galadriel, that I am very happy that you are marrying Celeborn and there is no other woman who I would feel so very honored to have marry the man who is as a son to me. I hope that this can be a new beginning for us…for all of us.”

Galadriel looked down at the Elessar that sat upon her breast and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the stone or because of the king’s words, but her heart suddenly felt very much lighter and she breathed a sigh of relief, no longer feeling the need to confine her concerns. “To tell you the truth,” she said, raising her eyes to Thingol’s with a small laugh, “I found that I was growing quite worried over the prospect of the wedding, thinking that I might prove more of a liability to Celeborn than a benefit.”

“A liability? Nay,” Thingol said, his voice soft. “You are,” he paused, his voice sounding as if he was near tears, taking her hands in his own as his eyes met hers, “the daughter of Eärwen, my brother’s daughter, and I could not be more proud of you, Galadriel, or of all that you have accomplished here. When I look at you today…and when I will look at you tomorrow in that hall as you pledge yourself to my son and our houses are joined…I will know with all certainty that Olwë would be unbearably proud of you, and if you mother is anything like her father then I know that she would be proud of you too. I know that it must be a disappointment to have Melian and I stand beside you rather than your own mother, and Celeborn’s father, but I do not know how I can even begin to tell you what an honor it shall be to do so.”

“It is not a disappointment,” Galadriel said, choking on her words, the tears beginning to stream down her face. For the first time she believed it and Thingol caught her in his arms, holding her close, as she remembered her grandfather doing when she was young, her face pressed up against his robes and in his silver hair, and she felt his hand patting the back of her head. “It is not a disappointment,” she repeated herself. “I am honored that even here, on the far side of the world, I have found family, and friends and a home.” She meant it with all her heart and, as she pulled back, she saw that tears were running down Thingol’s face as well.

“Galadriel, Doriath is,” he said, “now and forever, your home.”

*****

On this most auspicious of days, all of Menegroth opened in the soft and gentle light of the dawn like a rose unfurling its petals to the morning glow of summer. Servants in crisply pressed grey uniforms with immaculately white starched aprons moved through the great hall in perfect harmony, almost as though they were dancing, as they decorated the trees with garlands of great white peonies and lit the myriad silver lanterns that hung there. Gardeners rushed here and there, whispering words of encouragement to reluctant flowers, causing the tiny violet buds that grew in the moss along the edges of the creeks and streams to burst into full bloom. The fountains themselves seemed to be singing, spilling streams of clear, fresh water into silver basins, and the sky above was tinged with the pinks, golds, and pale blues of early morning.

It was true that the Sindar did not ordinarily wake during the day, but today was an exception, for it was a very special day, a long awaited day; today was the day that at long last Celeborn, prince of Doriath, would wed Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, and every waking moment was needed to prepare suitably for the wedding. Even the animals seemed to know that today was of some significance, for bright-eyed deer peeked out from behind trees with anticipation, and rabbits and squirrels bounded here and there in excitement, traversing the thousand caves.

Galathil and Inwen’s wedding had been a rushed affair and so Galadriel had not quite know what to expect of a proper Sindarin royal wedding but the night before Celeborn had ominously warned with a knowing grin, “they will come for us early in the morning.” They had passed the night in one another’s embrace, smiling and whispering sweet nothings, hardly able to sleep for all their excitement.

“This time tomorrow,” Celeborn whispered, stroking her hair back from her face in the starlight, kissing her lips softly, “we shall be husband and wife.” His words filled her heart with joy and peace and she kissed him, softly, gently, drawing back to look into his eyes, to run her fingers through his silver hair like a ribbon of moonlight.

“Celeborn, you make me so very happy,” Galadriel whispered and she truly meant it with all her heart. His arms were her home, his heart her solace, his touch her bliss. She had never imagined that someone so wonderful awaited her on the far side of the world, still it seemed nearly impossible to imagine that this happiness could be anything more than the most pleasant of dreams.

“And in the evening,” Celeborn said, “when you take my hand in Thingol’s great hall, and we speak Ilúvatar’s name, and then later,” he lowered his lips, brushing them across hers, “when we join our bodies, I know I shall be the happiest man in all of Arda.” The words nearly brought tears to her eyes when she recalled all that they had endured together, how once she had believed them sundered forever, but how it was love that had repaired what had seemed so irrevocably broken.

After that they spoke no words, for there were no words to say what their hearts yearned to express, and instead they spoke of their love in the language of flesh on flesh, of swollen lips tracing their path across smooth skin, of legs intertwined and hands wandering to places only sought in the shadows of the night. They found sleep at last then, sated in love, holding one another close, anticipating the morning and the promises that would rise with the sun.

Galadriel soon learned what Celeborn had meant when he had said that they would come for them in the morning, for hardly had the sun begun its trek across the horizon than the door burst open with the sound of bare feet running down the corridor, and Galadriel awoke as she was pelted with oranges, stale dinner rolls, and heads of cabbage. Shrieking, she pulled the covers up to fend off the attack, only to find Celeborn huddled beneath them with her, laughing so hard that tears were leaking from his eyes.

“What are they doing?” She shrieked.

“It is tradition,” he said. “They are protecting the bride.”

“From what?” She asked, laughing.

“From the groom,” he growled. And then, even as they were still being pelted, Celeborn grabbed her wrists, pinning her beneath him and beneath the blankets where, in the morning light that shone bright against the white sheets encircling them, she could see his eyes, green as leaves, burning through her with that passion of his that always made her heart skip a beat and he kissed her so deeply that she nearly forgot there was anyone else in the room. It was, she knew, a promise of what was to come in but a few short hours and she could feel her heart racing in anticipation.

“Save her, save her!” Galadriel could hear Thingol crying and the king, Galathil, Oropher, and Mablung threw the covers back, pulling Celeborn off of her, and, laughing and joking, they lifted him on their shoulders singing some song Galadriel had never heard before.

_Now you will feel no rain,_  
For each of you will be shelter for the other.  
Now you will feel no cold,  
For each of you will be warmth to the other.  
Now you are two persons,  
But there is one life before you.  
May the stars surround you,  
In the journey that lies ahead,  
May happiness be your friend and  
Your union good and long upon the earth. 

The men sang and Galadriel laughed, her eyes glittering with joy as she watched them hoist Celeborn up above their shoulders and he waved at her and laughed one more time before they carried him away, still singing. And now she felt hands tugging at her and turned to see Melian, Venessiel, Inwen, and Paniel all laughing. They reached out, pulling her from the bed a good deal more gently than the men had removed Celeborn, and, straightening her nightdress and dressing her in her robe, they too sang. 

_Fair is the white star of twilight,_  
And the clear sky at day’s end,  
But fairer still is my beloved,  
And our love strong as trees that do not bend. 

_Fair is the white star of twilight,_  
And the moon roving to the sky’s end;  
But fairer still is my beloved,  
And our love strong as trees that do not bend. 

Then laughing and singing, Melian took Galadriel’s hand, and Inwen the other, leading her through the corridors to the baths while Paniel and Venessiel followed behind them singing. Galadriel was certain that she was blushing as red as a summer rose at all the attention, for everyone they met bowed low and offered their congratulations and blessings, but even through her blushing she could not help but notice that all of Menegroth looked as though it had burst into full bloom: the grass and moss beneath their feet had become thick and verdant, the plants and flowers that adorned the corridors, and pavilions, and courtyards were lush with petals, the trees, both real and stone, had come to life with fresh leaves and the cheerful singing of birds.

“It is so glorious!” She exclaimed, unable to hide her excitement, feeling all of the awe that she had felt on her first night in this city.

“It is all for you,” Melian said, her eyes twinkling with delight.

When they reached the bathhouses they divested her of her clothes and gently scrubbed her skin clean with soft cloths and some sort of special perfumed soap that smelled of roses. Then they entered the piping hot water, relaxing against the white marble walls of the great pools. Melian ducked beneath the water, swimming from one end of the pool to the other then back again, surfacing in a cloud of long black hair that she swept behind her shoulders as she too leaned back against the edge of the pool. Venessiel twisted her long, wet hair up into a bun atop her head and Inwen wet a small towel in the water, wrung it out, and wrapped it about her shoulders. Paniel sat on the edge of the pool at Galadriel’s side, her feet in the water kicking back and forth.

“Are you very excited, Galadriel?” Inwen asked, grinning at her, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Very much so,” Galadriel laughed.

“And what are you more excited for: the ceremony or the consummation?” Venessiel asked with a sly grin. The ladies laughed and Galadriel felt her face flush as she rolled her eyes. She should have known that they meant to torment her.

“I am sure you know the answer to that,” she replied and they all laughed again.

“But we want to hear you say it, Galadriel,” Venessiel insisted, ever bold.

“After so many long centuries,” Galadriel said, pausing, feeling her face flush even redder and hotter, “I am ever so eagerly anticipating…” she tried to think of how to delicately phrase the next part…“having a bit of Sindarin in me at last.” She said, only belatedly realizing that it sounded far worse than she had intended. The ladies shrieked with laughter.

“From the size of him I’d reckon it will be far more than ‘a bit’,” Paniel said, speaking at last with a cat-like grin plastered across her face, “he’s nearly as tall as Thingol.” That only made the ladies laugh harder until Melian had tears of laughter rolling down her face that she reached up to wipe away.

“Are they teasing him the same way?” Galadriel demanded to know, struggling to hold back laughter of her own, and the still laughing ladies all nodded. “Oh the Noldor would be so offended by such jokes,” Galadriel exclaimed.

“Good thing this is a Sindarin kingdom then so we can have a bit of fun,” Inwen said with a wink.

“Do you have any questions, Galadriel?” Melian asked.

“About what?” Galadriel asked, at a loss as to what exactly the queen meant.

“About how to do it!” Venessiel hissed.

“Do what? Oh!” Galadriel exclaimed, flushing again. “Well, we’ve already done many things…” she hastily stammered much to the ladies’ amusement.

“But it is different and it will feel different when he is inside of you,” Melian said with a grin.

“And it will feel splendid,” Venessiel chimed in.

“But it might hurt,” Inwen said, voicing the one fear that Galadriel kept hidden.

“Some people have told me that it hurts terribly,” she admitted, “but I can’t imagine that Celeborn would ever injure me.”

“I am sure he will do his best to be gentle,” Melian assured her, “but it is often the case that the two of you will become overexcited and overenthusiastic so you may not realize it has hurt until the following day when you are sore.”

“With how long they’ve been waiting I wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t walk for a week afterwards,” Venessiel laughed.

“Did it hurt for you?” Galadriel asked and Melian shook her head.

“No, not at all,” she replied.

“Well you’re a Maia. That’s hardly fair,” Inwen said. “It hurt for me, not a great deal, but we were, as you said, overly hasty and overly eager. Be sure he prepares you well first.”

“It didn’t hurt for me either,” Venessiel said with a smile. “Just be sure that you relax and everything will go…smoothly.” The ladies laughed again and then they were pulling Galadriel up out of the water, drying her body and hair with soft towels.

They returned to Galadriel and Celeborn’s chambers then where they brushed her hair out until it shone like spun gold and applied some oil that made it even softer. Her skin they rubbed with a sweet-smelling cream.

“Jasmine,” Melian murmured, “brought by traders from the far east.” And then they painted her hands and feet in designs of flowers and leaves with the same gold paint that the dancers used. They rimmed her eyes in black kohl, dusting her cheeks with soft pink powder, and rouged her lips. Then they bade her stand again and removed her nightdress, dressing her instead in the thin, white, gossamer silk chemise that she was to wear beneath her wedding gown.

The gown itself came next, that magnificent creation of soft, beech-green silk embroidered with the subtle design of leaves veined in pale gold thread, with a long, full, flowing skirt that trailed far behind her. Her hair they left unbound, but they clasped many bangles of palest gold and strings of bells and pearls about her wrists and ankles so that every time she moved she jingled. Melian lifted a collar of bright emeralds and golden pearls from the Falas, clasping it about Galadriel’s neck, and set cuffs of gold filigree upon the tips of Galadriel’s ears. Then upon her head they set a crown of lush peonies as white as snow.

“You look so perfect,” Inwen said wistfully, smiling and clasping Galadriel’s hands. “And in but a few hours we shall be sisters by marriage.”

“I have never had a sister,” Galadriel said with a smile, embracing Inwen before she resumed her seat, nearly quivering with excitement as the other ladies hurried to ready themselves.

Then, when at last they had finished, Paniel and Inwen took Galadriel’s train and, led by Melian, with her heart pounding, Galadriel stepped out into the halls to find them lined with the citizens of Doriath, who all sank into deep bows upon seeing her.

“Today the sundering shall be remedied and in your joining so shall the lines of the Vanyar, the Noldor, the Teleri, and the Sindar be joined,” Melian whispered in Galadriel’s ear. “Today you become a princess of Doriath.”

*****

“You are driving yourself mad,” Thingol chuckled, watching his nephew fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.

“I can hardly believe it to be true,” Celeborn said with a grin, shaking his head in disbelief. “It seems almost like a dream.”

Thingol smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. “By the end of today you shall be a married man,” he said. “I never thought I would see the day when at last you were tamed, and by one whose own mother named her Nerwen no less.” The king laughed. “I still remember how you scoffed at the idea of a Noldorin bride when first I mentioned the possibility of such a thing.”

“Oh but from the moment he saw Galadriel he was smitten with her,” Galathil said with a broad grin. “I still remember how love-struck he was acting after he saw her for the first time asking me if I thought a girl like her could ever be interested in him, begging me to ask Auntie if Galadriel had mentioned him to her.”

“And then after she danced before the court for the first time he was so unbearably irritating,” Oropher laughed. “He kept going on and on, swearing oaths that he would fight any other man who dared ask her for her hand.”

“At least you two never had to patrol the borders with him during that time,” Mablung grumbled. “I thought I would go mad if I heard him mention her name but one more time. I earnestly considered putting an arrow through him just to stop him from talking.”

“I suppose I shall have to eat my words about Noldorin brides,” Celeborn said with a grin. There was nothing that could take the happiness from him on this of all days. He stepped before the mirror once more, hardly able to believe that it was himself he saw reflected there, for where the young man in worn hunting breeches and a simple cambric shirt usually stood was now one who could have been a king. 

His breeches were of deep gray broadcloth, his silver-toed boots of black leather that had been buffed so well it shone nearly like a mirror in candlelight. The silver silk of his new tunic, embroidered with white cranes in flight, had cost a king’s ransom, and the clasps at the shoulders were of fine silver filigree studded with diamonds. The cape that he wore over all of this, which hung long to trail upon the ground behind him, was of a rich, deep, evergreen silk, embroidered in darker green thread in images of the forest: trees and rivers, birds and beasts, and lined with green velvet. The collar of it, which was pinned to his shoulders, was made from the fur of a great, gray wolf. This had been Thingol’s that he had given to his nephew as a wedding gift. His silver hair he had left unbound and he reached up to straighten the ornate black crown that sat upon his head.

“There is not a single detail out of place,” Thingol said with a laugh. 

“This waiting is driving me mad,” Celeborn mumbled.

“After 400 years I would think that you would be accustomed to waiting,” Mablung laughed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall.

“Is it not more difficult to wait when the object of desire is so close at hand?” Celeborn asked and Oropher raised a golden brow. 

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh. “Are you sure you know what you are doing? Do you know where to put it?” Celeborn glared at his cousin. 

“Of course I know what to do,” he said to his cousin. “And I know where to put it.” Thingol, Galathil, and Oropher laughed long and hard at that and then the king came to stand beside Celeborn, looking at their reflections in the mirror.

“You could have been my son in flesh and blood,” for all the resemblance we bear each other,” Thingol said softly and Celeborn grinned. It was true. “In my heart, Celeborn,” Thingol said, “you are my son, and that is why I have prepared a special gift for you, a wedding gift, just as I have given Galadriel the Elessar.”

“Uncle,” Celeborn exclaimed, “that is quite unnecessary! I assure you that the expense of the wedding is enough of a gift!” Indeed, Thingol’s generosity had been above and beyond what he had expected. He knew the king was trying to make up for his past wrongs.

“Father,” Thingol said and Celeborn nodded.

“Father,” he replied. 

“Well then, come with me!” Thingol said with a wave of his hand and a laugh. “I can’t wait another moment! You’ll be astounded, I’m sure.”

“And what should we do?” Galathil asked, grinning.

“The three of you had best get off to the hall,” Thingol said, turning back, “and make sure that everything is ready. We will be along shortly.”

“We had better not be late though,” Celeborn said to Thingol as they stepped into the hallway and the king shook his head.

“We won’t be, I assure you,” Thingol with a wink.

*****

Galadriel could feel the blush rising in her cheeks and her heartbeat growing faster and faster as they drew nearer and nearer to the hall. She could hear the Sindar singing and well it was said that they had the most beautiful voices of all of the Eldar. The wedding would be simply splendid; she was sure of it now and her worries fell away. She imagined Celeborn’s face when he would see her for the first time, they joy they would have in consummating their bond at last and her anticipation seemed nigh unbearable.

“What are you thinking?” Inwen whispered excitedly and Galadriel took and released a deep breath, unable to keep the beaming smile from her face.

“That it all seems rather like a dream,” she said, “as though I cannot believe it is really happening, at last, after everything.”

“But it is,” Inwen said, patting her hand and Galadriel nodded. 

They had come to the entry of the great hall at last, which was practically teeming with elves in their best clothes, and Galadriel took and released a long, deep breath.

“Are they there?” She asked, looking towards the far end of the hall by the dais. 

“No,” Melian said, sounding a bit confused, craning her neck to see over the great crowd assembled there. “How strange…”

“I thought they were already supposed to be here?” Galadriel said, growing a bit anxious again.

“They were,” Venessiel said. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everything is perfectly alright. They must just be running a bit behind.” The ladies all nodded their agreement to assuage her worry but somehow, and for some reason she could not quite explain, Galadriel felt as though some dark shadow were coming upon them.

They waited perhaps twenty minutes, twenty minutes in which Galadriel paced and worried incessantly. To her it felt like hours. “Where could they be?” Inwen asked to nobody in particular.

“Well I can assure you that the king is not usually prompt,” Venessiel replied, clearly trying to make the best of things, but doubt had crept into her voice as well.

“They must be delayed,” Melian said, shaking her head. “Thingol said he had something special he wanted Celeborn to wear for the ceremony, something the dwarves were helping him with.”

“What dwarves?” Galadriel gasped, turning to Melian.

*****

“The smithies?” Celeborn asked as he and Thingol drew near. The wedding was about to begin and so everyone was up in the great hall and the corridors down here were deserted, the lights in the silver lanterns burning low. Thingol merely nodded with a mysterious grin.

“I already have rings,” Celeborn said, taking the two golden bands from his pocket, assuming that Thingol meant to replace the previous ones seeing as how Celeborn had given them to Lúthien. “But of course, if you have had some made we shall be honored to use them instead.” He did not want to be rude but he was worried that he was about to be late for his own wedding and he did not want to worry Galadriel.

“I’ve something very special for you to wear today,” Thingol said with a wink. “Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.”

Despite his mild nervousness, Celeborn nodded with a smile and leaned back against the wall outside the gates to the smithy, shrugging his shoulders under the heavy weight of the cape. He reached down, catching the folds of it in his fingers, admiring the intricate and elegantly done designs. Normally he did not pay much attention to clothing, but this truly was a thing of beauty.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting and looked down at his own reflection in the silver toes of his boots. He didn’t want to be rude but he really wished that Thingol would hurry. He was impatient for the ceremony to start, worried that they might already be late, and he began to pace back and forth before he finally urged himself to remain calm, leaning back against the wall again. He felt so very nervous and yet he was so unbelievably happy. The thought of Galadriel’s smile, of the light in her eyes, filled his heart with joy. He laughed to himself, wondering what she would look like. She had been so secretive about her gown, insisting that he could not see it until the ceremony.

But, he had to admit that what he was most excited about was taking the gown off of her, joining with her fully at long last. He bit his lip, grinning, wondering what it would feel like, longing to sense her thoughts and feelings merging with his. He took a deep breath, holding it, expelling it…and that was when he heard a great commotion arise from within the smithies. It sounded like shouting and he wondered if Thingol had perhaps gotten into some sort of argument. But he could not imagine with whom. There was no one here, or so he had thought. 

He listened more closely, turning towards the gates, his brow furrowed. It sounded like Khuzdul… but that couldn’t be. The dwarves of Nogrod were the only dwarves who had ever worked the forges and they had not been in Doriath for centuries. Fingers pressed tightly against the stone wall, he stood, hesitating, wondering if he ought to venture in, see what Thingol had gotten into. Then, all of a sudden, the arguing stopped and everything went quiet.

*****

_A white-hot searing pain lanced through her body as her mind went completely blank for a moment and then it was as if the world had vanished completely and she was tumbling down, down, down into blackness that became ink scrawled across parchment that bled into the seal of the king._

_But the parchment tore under the weight and she fell through, landing with a sickening thud upon the floor of the great hall and then she felt someone fastening some necklace about her throat, clasping it so tightly that she could not breath at all and now they were twisting, twisting, twisting their hand, pulling the necklace tighter and tighter, choking her with it, closing off her windpipe and she struggled to scream but all that came out was a hoarse choking noise as her vision began to darken. The walls of Menegroth pulsed around her, beating like some macabre heart: thump, thump, thump. The heart beat deep inside her brain._

_Then the images flashed in rapid succession one right after the other: Túrin hurling his goblet at Saeros, Saeros’s broken corpse, Húrin throwing the Nauglamir at Thingol’s feet. “Receive though thy fee,” he cried, “for thy fair keeping of my children and my wife!” The man’s words echoed in her ears and she looked down in horror to find that it was the Nauglamir about her neck and in it was set the Silmaril. Then, in that instant in which she gazed upon the cursed jewel set in that cursed necklace, the world suddenly went dark._

_She was shivering, shivering as though she stood naked in the midst of the Helcaraxë and, as her vision slowly began to clear, she found that she was. She rose, her skin purple and cold, and with brittle feet began to tread across the ice, moving towards something, she knew not what; she only knew that she must reach it. The bitter winds tore her skin away like paper and she stumbled and fell, the force of her body connecting with the ice causing unbearable pain to shoot through her, as if all of her bones had shattered at once._

_But she heard him calling for her: Celeborn. “Galadriel!” His voice sounded weak, faded, and she knew, somehow, that there was not much life left within him._

_“Celeborn!” She cried. “I’m coming! Don’t surrender your life!” She had not the strength to stand any longer but, with her fingernails, she began to pull her shattered body across the ice, inch by inch. Her nails tore at the strain, her blood running out onto the snow and the ice like gruesome veins of red pulsing through white snow._

_“Galadriel…” she heard him again, closer now, but his voice was growing fainter, and she began to sob._

_“Don’t die!” She pleaded and to whom: to him, to this frozen wasteland, to the unfeeling Valar with their hearts of stone. “Don’t take him!” She was screaming like a woman gone mad. “Don’t take him! Not him! He is innocent!” The only thing he had ever done wrong was love her._

_“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.” She heard Mandos’s deep voice surround her, booming so loud that even the ice beneath her shook with the force of an earthquake. Her tears froze upon her face and there now before her, beneath the ice, was Celeborn._

_He was still alive she could see, the bubbles escaping his lips as he shouted to her, cries that were muffled by the water and the ice so that she could not hear him, and instead her ears were filled with the guttural sound of the Dwarven language; Khuzdul rang in her ears._

_“Celeborn!” She screamed, pounding at the ice, clawing at it until her fingers were worn down to the bone and even the bone chipped away. His green eyes were frantic as he struggled against the frozen coffin that imprisoned him. She tried to free him with all of her might but then he began to still, his face purpling as Elenwë’s had. Gradually his lips stopped moving, the bubbles of air stopped rising, and then his green eyes went dull…dead…_

“NO!” Galadriel shouted, sitting up, finding that she was lying, quivering on the floor, that the hall had burst into pandemonium at her collapse, and that Venessiel, Inwen, and Paniel were shaking her.

“What is the matter?” Venessiel was crying, near frantic, grasping Galadriel’s shoulders.

“It is one of her visions,” Paniel was trying to explain. 

“Where is Melian?” Galadriel gasped but Inwen only shook her dark head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It…it was all very strange. You fell down and everyone got so worried. Then Melian just got this strange look upon her face and, saying nothing, left the hall. I don’t know where she went.”

There was no time. The bolt of white light shot through Galadriel’s mind again and she heard Bainwen’s voice crying: _look for the lie in that which you hold dear._

“Where is Celeborn,” she whispered, fearful, “where is he? Where?” Inwen only shook her head, confused. “Inwen,” Galadriel said, trembling, her eyes fierce and flashing, “I want you to call every guard in this city, every single one of them. Find him. Do it NOW!” She bellowed and Inwen stumbled back, nodding furiously, as Galadriel rose, turning and launching herself down the hallway, running as fast as she could, casting off her golden slippers and lifting the heavy skirts of her gown. She heard Paniel following behind her but did not take the time to speak.

 _Look for the lie in that which you hold dear._ She had thought it was a more abstract warning, a lie that someone was keeping from her. Now she saw that it was, in fact, far more concrete than she had imagined. Inwen had done her duty and the horns of Doriath were resounding through the hallway, the great drums beating in the deep, summoning the guards. They were running now towards the great hall, where Inwen had called the muster and Galadriel was running the opposite way, pushing past them.

 _Look for the lie in that which you hold dear._ She had no time to be frightened now, only to act and she threw open the door to her chambers, running down the corridor and into the main room, throwing open her chest, the old chest from when she had been a servant, the chest where she knew that her dancing costume was, the one that Bainwen had known that she treasured, the one that Finrod had given to her. She fumbled with the clasp and it sprung open beneath her trembling fingers. She threw back the lid, reaching in, pulling out the carefully folded blue chiffon, and there, neatly tucked into the folds, were two documents. 

She sat down hard on the ground, feeling as if the air had been knocked from her as, with trembling fingers, she unfolded the papers. _“They had a decree, signed and sealed by the king, that she was to be sent to the Isle of Balar.”_ The guard had said. _“It is nothing, only that matter with the dwarves and Thingol, some business about some contract he says he never signed,”_ Celeborn had told her the night he had first sang to her and she had wounded him so cruelly. _“Thingol was far more generous than I had anticipated,”_ Finrod had said as he set out to found Nargothrond.

Paniel sank down beside her. “A forgery…” she said, her eyes wide as she stared at the documents. It must have been. Galadriel stared at the papers in her hands: one an order for the withdrawal of ten million silver from the treasury to be given in gifts to Nargothrond, the other a contract with the dwarves of Nogrod for 10 million silver worth of armor, both signed and sealed by the king.

“He promised the money to the dwarves and then gave it to Finrod instead,” Galadriel gasped, her breath coming in short, painful gasps, her fingers trembling. “They’re here, the dwarves of Nogrod are here…I can feel it. I keep hearing Khuzdul in my mind.” Galadriel suddenly felt as though she was about to be sick.

Paniel shook her head, taking the papers from Galadriel. “No,” she said. “They are both forgeries. Thingol knew nothing of this. Someone tried to cover one lie with another. I have been a spy for Thingol since before the rising of the sun,” Paniel muttered. “I know his signature better than anyone. Think, Galadriel!” She took her hands, holding them tightly. “THINK! Where is Celeborn?” 

Galadriel nodded, preparing to do as Paniel bade her and closed her eyes, concentrating. It was so very difficult when her mind was filled with impossible worries, when she felt as though her whole world were crumbling about her, when she was nearly certain that the man she loved was already dead.

“Can you feel him through the bond? CAN YOU?” Paniel shouted at her, pinching her fingers. The pain helped her concentrate and, drawing on everything Melian had ever taught her, she tried to enter into the vision once more, reaching out for him through that tenuous thread that held their hearts together. She could feel it fraying… _just a little longer._

_He was somewhere he didn’t like, somewhere dark, deep, musty with ash and soot. She almost felt as though she were inside him now and, in the periphery she could see silver hair spread out, stained with blood, and Thingol’s face, his eyes cold and lifeless. She looked up at the ceiling through Celeborn’s eyes and, at the top of a long staircase she saw the gates: the gates of the smithy._

“They’re in the smithy,” she gasped, coming to with a start. “They’re in the smithy!”

*****

“Thingol?” Celeborn called hesitantly, worried, reaching for the knife at his back only to have his hand close around air. He had forgotten that he had taken it off for the ceremony. After all, what use was a blade at a wedding? “Thingol?” He called. “Is something the matter?” He did not like the smithies at all but still, if there was something amiss he had better see to it. He passed through the gates and jogged down the stairs. The voices had gone silent now and he frowned, wondering what was amiss, where everyone was.

But all was silent, not that he could see very well in the dark down here, with all this ash and soot hanging in the air from the fires. He lifted a hand, covering his mouth, coughing. His footfalls echoed noisily in the silent hall. He looked to his right and his left curiously. He had expected it to be deserted, but still, he would have thought they might have left the fires in the forges burning. It was unusual that they were out.

“Thingol?” He called, passing into the next room.

“Thin…” he came to a dead halt. 

There…in the center of the floor was Thingol. He lay on his back, his arms outstretched, his head tilted back, facing the door so that Celeborn could see his cold eyes staring lifelessly at him. His body was awash in his own blood and slowly like the tide it was seeping forth from him still, staining his silver hair red, a macabre sight. His hand was outstretched as if he had been reaching for something. It was the consummation of Galadriel’s vision…except for…

Celeborn stood, transfixed, feeling as if he had forgotten how to breathe, how to think…and that was when he felt the blade of an axe bite into his back, severing his spine, and he doubled over, collapsing on top of another axe that clove into his stomach with a sickening squelch. The blade was torn free and he fell to the ground atop his own blood and organs, unable to move, the taste of blood in his mouth. He had not even the strength to choke on it. 

His world began to dim, growing faint, and he forgot how to think, how to remember anything at all…save the girl he had first seen so many centuries ago, standing in a clearing, burning like the sunrise, slender as a willow yet stronger than diamonds, with a smile like spring and eyes that shone with some ethereal light… _Galadriel…_

Somehow he was crying and he tasted the salt of his own tears as he opened his mouth, managing a single word, one last gasp… “Galadriel…”

His world went dark.

*****

**Footnote:** I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH! WHAT NOW???? 


	36. Vigil of the Condemned

  
**Vigil of the Condemned**

In Cavern's Shade: 36th Chapter

*****

"Nothing escapes me. No one escapes me."

_\- Death, The Seventh Seal_

*****

**Author's note:** Guys I am so unbelievably sorry this took so long. I thought I was going to have a bunch of time to write but then I had final exams, professional exams, graduation, I moved 3,000 miles across the country, started a new job, our kitchen in the new house has to be torn out and redone because of water damage, my parents decided to get in a huge fight and throw my husband and I in the middle of it, and you know who is back. The commute to my new job is pretty long so I haven't had much time to write during the week but hopefully things will settle down a bit now…hopefully. You guys are seriously the best. Thank you for being so patient and for also checking in to see if I am ok. All of you are so nice and I love you!

 **Character profile:** Galathil

Ok so, Galathil was actually THE most difficult character for me to develop and he is the huge reason why I delayed so long in publishing this story after I started writing it. There's no textual canon info about him so I had to create him the way I would create an OC.

As Celeborn's brother, I knew he would play an important role in the story so I thought his characterization had to be strongly developed and it was very difficult for me to settle on a characterization for him. I don't usually draw primarily on real people I know for characterizations although I sometimes will take aspects of different people's personalities and cobble them together into a character.

But, because I had so much trouble developing Galathil, I tried to base him off of my own brother for a while. Well, the problem with that was that my brother actually is a lot like Celeborn (although Mablung is really the character I based off of my brother) so Galathil basically ended up being a Celeborn clone like this and it didn't work.

Eventually I just had to sit down, start from step one, and decide what qualities in Celeborn I wanted his brother to draw out. So I decided that I wanted his brother to draw out the more fun, playful, younger, and less serious side of him. From there I started to build Galathil and he began to develop really nicely. I actually wrote a lot of the sequence with him and Inwen getting pregnant with Nimloth quite early in the story and this helped me to develop the relationship between him and Celeborn. Once I had developed that relationship between them, I felt much more comfortable developing Galathil and building his character because I though I had a solid foundation.

Although I wanted him to have aspects in common with Celeborn, like their playful kind of goofy nature, I also wanted him to act as a foil for Celeborn in some ways. So I decided Galathil should be more into the arts instead of being into kind of athletic and political stuff the way Celeborn is. I think this gave a lot of depth to Galathil's character and also allowed me to expand the cultural side of the Sindar more. I think Galathil has a much softer heart and much more compassion than Celeborn does. In that way, I think he helps to draw out those qualities in Celeborn and help him get more in touch with those aspects of himself and his life. I think it was in large part due to the relationship between Galathil and Inwen in part II that Celeborn was able to ultimately see what he wanted with Galadriel and have the courage to fight for that and face his fears.

If you have any more questions about Galathil please don't hesitate to ask in a review or send me a message!

*****

As much as he could be sure of anything, Celeborn was sure that he had fallen asleep and come to again. And, if this were death then it was remarkably calm, more so he had anticipated, and he wondered why Mandos did not come. Or else, perhaps the old Sindar had been right; perhaps he was now a star and that was why it was so dark all around him, as though he were lying on a massive pane of glass that stretched from one end to the other of a great black void.

He was conscious of very little, only that there was a blackness above and around him, soothing it was, and calming. He felt as though he were lying in a small boat in the shallows of the Sirion while the waves gently rocked it, like a baby in a cradle, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, for it seemed at last that in that sleep he would find peace. He smiled and prepared to sleep but then, just as that peace was about to envelop him in her arms, his vision began to clear and the room that he was in slowly began to shift into focus.

The starlit ceiling floated overhead and he watched it for a while, confused, wondering where he was. His other senses came back slowly as well and he gradually began to feel that there was cold stone at his back - a floor. But, strangely enough, he could not feel anything below his waist. His lungs burned as though he did not have enough air and so he tried to draw a deeper breath but it was unbearably painful, as if white-hot fire had lanced through his bones all of a sudden and he resumed his shallow breathing, feeling as though he were slowly suffocating. He was dying, certainly, and he knew it, but for some reason he felt so very calm.

The smithy: he remembered now; he was in the smithy. But he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be somewhere else... His wedding - he was supposed to be at his own wedding. At the thought, all of his memories came flooding back suddenly in a torrent of emotion that broke him and he began to weep with abandon at the thought that it would all go unfinished. He wanted so badly to feel as if he had lived a complete life and yet he knew that he hadn't because he had not yet married Galadriel. The thought was unbearable: that he would die without having joined with her. Die: because he was certainly dying.

He could feel his blood seeping out onto the floor, flowing away from him, and he was powerless to stop it. He could not move and he had not the heart to look down and see what had been done to him. Seeing it would not save him and if he was to die then he wanted to remember how he had been, young and strong, and not as he was now, broken and torn open. His eyelids felt as though they were made of lead and he had to struggle with all his might to keep them from closing. The walls of Menegroth seemed to pulse around him, as though he were in the great beating heart of some beast that lived and breathed.

It was then that he saw something, some shadow, some figure, some form moving in the dim light of the dying forges. He struggled to remember who she was, and when at last he realized that it was Melian, he saw that she looked nothing like he had ever seen: her appearance grown taut and gaunt, the skin of her body and face as pale as the moon and stretched over her bones as though they were merely a frame with no muscle at all, giving her the appearance of a famine victim or some spectral spirit that haunts the nights in which there are no stars and all is blackness and myth.

She walked, hunched, as old dwarves or mortals did, as though she had borne a great burden upon her back for far too many years, and slowly, shuffling, as though every bone in her body would shatter if she were to move too fast, she came forward towards him. Celeborn thought he could see strange wing-like protrusions from her back, though those too were skeletal, with ragged and musty dark feathers that seemed to fall as she walked. Her corporeal form was falling slowly away.

She came to a stop over him and he felt the drip, drip, dripping of some warm liquid falling upon him: blood, the king's blood, he could see that she was soaked in it, herself dyed incarnadine, almost as though she had tried to intern her body within her husband's as his life had bled away, as though she had tried to exchange her life for his and failed. It began to dawn on him then that she must have been here for some time now, in that span during which he had thought himself dead and been conscious of nothing.

She looked down at him with wide and uncomprehending eyes, horror etched into every line of her face and he wondered where her power had gone as it began to dawn on him that this truly deathless creature was not herself capable of comprehending death. He wanted to speak, to move, even to blink so that she would know that he yet lived, that his life had not fled him yet, but he found that he was completely incapable of any sort of movement and so he could do nothing more than stare up at her with unmoving, half-lidded eyes.

"And you too my Silver Tree, my Celeborn?" She said in a whisper. Just as the beauty of her body was gone, so too was the beauty of her voice, and what words came forth from her mouth were a croaking, retching utterance deeper than the voice of any man, resembling more the cry of the crow than of any songbird. He tried his hardest to move, to show her that there was life within him yet, but it was all to no avail. His traitorous body, seemingly made of pure stone, did not even twitch and Melian let out a harsh, keening wail that he thought would nearly shatter his ears, tears rolling in a flood down her gaunt face as she tore at her hair, ripping out great chunks of it until she was nearly bald.

Tears streamed down her face like rain and then her wail tapered to a shallow whisper. "I too shall pass," she said, turning back, taking one last mournful glance at Thingol but the sight seemed too much to bear for she turned away violently, staggering towards the door like a wounded deer fleeing the hunter hwo will perish alone in some unknown place. She paused there for a moment, suspended it seemed between this world and some other, and then she passed, but not into the next room or into the corridor; her entire body seemed to dissipate, as mist at dawn, and Celeborn knew by it that she was no longer in this world.

Thingol, the blood had been Thingol's, he thought, and some strange feeling awoke in his chest, clawing to get out, to escape. Thingol. He needed to protect Thingol. He had to. _Thingol, Thingol,_ he cried his uncle's name over and over in his mind yet he could not force his traitorous lips to move. He had to, he must. Celeborn concentrated with all of his might to force the shock away, to overcome it and, momentarily, he was able to make it pass, but as it left him, the pain flooded in, excruciating pain, unbearable pain, and he let out a horrid shriek, beginning to weep violently from the terrible pain that wracked his body.

His legs were still completely numb and he could not move them at all, so, mustering his strength, he turned himself over. The pain nearly caused him to lose consciousness again it was so great, and he trembled, closing his eyes tightly, trying to will the blackness away. Momentarily the darkness passed and his vision cleared again, though he still felt lightheaded, as if any moment he could plunge again into that deep void of unconsciousness. Slowly, he reached forward, grappling at the stone floor with blood stained fingers, faltering, then finding purchase at last.

He dragged himself forward, the horrible squelching sound of blood accompanying him as he moved, his nails breaking on the rough stone. The effort of moving just that small bit exhausted him and he stopped for a moment, raising his head. Blood was running into his eyes but he could see Thingol not so far away, lying on his back, his hand outstretched, his eyes blank, and Celeborn began to sob but, as he did so, blood bubbled up from his lungs, running over his lips to drip onto the floor in a pink and red froth that he vomited out, his body spasming in pain.

He put out his other hand, found purchase in the stone floor, and pulled himself forward a bit more, this time screaming out loud at the agony. His bones felt as though lightening had surged through them, cracking them like the charred wood of a tree, lighting his senses on fire, and he reached down, fumbling for a minute with his stomach, trying to hold it together with one hand as with the other he dragged himself the rest of the way to Thingol's side.

He grasped desperately at the king's head, tangling his hands in Thingol's silver hair. Tears washed down his face as he pressed his forehead to his uncle's, sobbing uncontrollably "Thingol, Thingol," he wept, unable to believe it was true, yet as soon as he spoke he coughed violently, his ribs aching in pain, and blood poured forth from his mouth. The pain was unbearable and Celeborn lay back, gasping shallowly.

"I don't want to be alone when I die," his whispered to Thingol's corpse. Yet Celeborn could feel his own life slipping away like the leaves of autumn and he wondered briefly what his body looked like, what sort of wounds he had sustained and how long it would take him to pass, but he had not the courage to look. "I don't want to be alone," he whispered again. "I don't want to die afraid."

He clung to Thingol tightly as he cried into the king's bloodstained robes, his spirit as broken as their bodies. Yet he did not see all the events of his life flash before his eyes as some had said they had seen, when confronted with near death in battle. Rather, he could only think that he would not see another spring in Doriath, or feel the rain showers upon his face as he stood at the top of the tallest tree, or watch the stars float overhead, otherworldly and ethereal, the enchanting heavens of middle earth, and, briefly, he thought he heard Galadriel's laugh echo in his mind and he smiled.

"Thingol, I am not so far behind you," he said, closing his eyes and at last surrendering to that sweet sleep. "Wait for me."

*****

"There are dwarves in the corridors!" The wardens were shouting as Galadriel and Paniel made their way into the hallways. "Dwarves covered in blood!" Galadriel gripped her spear tighter, swallowing hard. She could still feel Celeborn through their weakening bond, but he was only barely alive and she did not know if they would reach him in time or, if they did reach him, if there was anything they could possibly do to save him. She could feel that she was on the verge of panic, just as she had been in Alqualondë, her heart thundering in her chest, her hands sweaty, trembling.

The images flashed through her mind, _silver-haired Teleri bleeding their lives out onto the white sand, the red gore of intestines bobbing in the water of silver fountains, the swords of her cousins drip, drip, dripping with blood that fell like red rain. She felt the familiar lurch in her stomach at the gruesome memories, the tightening of her chest as if she were about to asphyxiate, trapped beneath the water._ She closed her eyes for an instant, fighting, willing the panic away.

There would be a time for tears, a time for pain later, a time when Celeborn's life did not depend on her maintaining a cool head. The guards were pushing past them in a rush to get somewhere, she knew not where, and she reached out, grabbing one by the arm, stopping him.

"Where are you going?" She asked. "What has happened?"

"I do not know, Lady," he said, shaking his head. "No one knows. Only, dwarves were spotted near the gates, covered in blood and bearing with them the Silmaril and other items from Doriath's treasury."

"Whose blood?" Galadriel demanded to know, her eyes flashing.

"I do not know," the guard said. "Mablung has ordered us to pursue these dwarves and so that is where we go now."

"No, you shall come with us now," she told him.

"Lady, we cannot!" He exclaimed. "We are under orders to proceed to the gates."

"Speak to your commanding officer then!" Galadriel exclaimed, refusing to be dissuaded. "I believe that the king and the prince were attacked in the smithies but I do not know if there are still dwarves there. I need several of you to accompany us." She would not relent and the guard seemed to understand, nodding stiffly.

He looked hesitant for a moment and then jogged up to the front of the regiment, speaking to what Galadriel could only assume was the captain. A few nods were exchanged and then the soldier made his way back towards them, three others in tow. "We have permission," he said simply. The minutes it must have taken them to reach the smithy seemed like interminable hours as they followed the winding passages, curving staircases, and long bridges down, down, down into the depths of the earth. It was far darker down here and the enchanted sky above seemed less bright, the trees became sparser, and the walls of stone less beautiful and more imposing.

A sob started in Galadriel's throat and she choked it back. This could not, must not be the place where Celeborn met his end, so far from the trees, and the stars, and fresh air. They crossed a narrow bridge spanning a deep dark chasm, a bridge upon which bloody boot prints remained, and then they were at the entrance to the smithies, a great iron gate towering above a long staircase that led down, down, down into blackness. She heard the guards drawing their axes and glanced to her right, Paniel's nearly imperceptible nod urging her to set foot upon the stair.

It was a long way down into the blackness but, when she reached the bottom she saw that the fires were burning in the far room and there on the floor…just as she had seen in her visions…was Celeborn. She felt for a moment as though she were about to collapse, as if her heart had stopped beating, but she still felt it: that tenuous thread that stretched between them and she knew that he was not dead, not yet, that some hope remained.

"Celeborn," she gasped in a strangled voice and she ran to his side, her heart shattering into a million pieces like fragile glass upon a stone floor. "Celeborn," she sobbed, sinking down on her knees into the broad pool of blood that surrounded him and Thingol. She heard the guards shouting as if from far away, one of them running back up the stairs. It seemed as though everything was moving slowly, as if underwater.

Thingol was clearly dead, his eyes gone still and blank, his head thrown back, facing the stairs, a look of surprise frozen on a face that would smile no more, laugh never again. His chest had been cleaved open, his throat slit. Celeborn had fallen at his uncle's side and he was so coated in blood, both his and Thingol's, that she could not tell what color his tunic had been. There was a horrible deep gashes all over his body. "Celeborn," she whispered. His eyes were closed, the salt of tears dried upon his face amidst the blood. What need had there been for this?

It seemed as though he had dragged himself to Thingol's side and his face was pressed into Thingol's shoulder, his arms wrapped around the king. "Celeborn," she gasped, and the tears were falling freely now from her eyes as she carefully gathered her beloved into her arms, holding him tight against her, remembering how only this morning he had been alive and laughing, his body warm against hers…his smile. His skin was cool to the touch. "Celeborn, don't leave me!" She choked out frantically, her tears falling to mingle with the blood on his face, the blood that coated her hands, that stained her dress, as she held him in her arms. It was as if a nightmare had come to life and moved amongst them now, a phantasmal specter brought to life.

"What have they done to you?" She whispered, her eyes roving his form with horror. There was a deep gash in his stomach through which she could clearly see his insides, long cuts on his arms meant to drain his blood. His nose was broken and part of his scalp torn back. Tenderly, she lay him down on the floor, her ear pressed against his chest, listening to the faint and faltering rhythm of his heart, and while his heart was slowing hers was beating frantically like a hammer on an anvil. She knew it was only by Ilúvatar's grace that he had endured so long in this mangled state.

He seemed to come to for a brief moment, his eyes half opened, shifting into focus yet still clearly delirious as he raised trembling fingers, straining for a brief moment to touch the green silk of her gown before they fell away, the motion left incomplete. "Your dress…" he said in a dying whisper before his eyes rolled back in his head, his body going completely limp.

"No…no…no!" Galadriel cried in a ragged whisper, her entire body trembling as it never had before.

"The healers are on their way," Paniel said, her voice low and quick, unable to keep the worry from her voice.

"It will be too late," Galadriel said, her voice low and frightened, terror ringing in her heart like a hollow bell. She bent closer to Celeborn, embracing him fully, lying down by his side, her body flush against hers.

"What are you doing?" Paniel hissed, sounding frantic for the first time since Galadriel had known her.

"We are bound by blood," Galadriel whispered, "what life I have…perhaps it can pass to him."

"If he dies!" Paniel cried.

"Then what is left for me that I should wish to live?" Galadriel replied softly. After that she remembered nothing, only that she had grasped at that slender thread that connected them, that thread that had seemed to be slipping away, like a boat come loose from its moorings and drifting out to sea. _Not yet,_ she thought, _not yet,_ she pleaded, weaving the threads of her life together with his.

*****

The stars were bright tonight, brighter than he had ever seen them, burning like ether in the deep blackness of the night and beneath them on the wine-dark sea the tide flowed out, dragging him with it into the depths of the ocean and he beat back against it, ever back, borne ceaselessly back against the current. Where he walked in space and time he did not know, only that everything seemed so still, but he had heard that drowning was a peaceful death and, as he sank deeper and deeper into the darkness of the ocean he felt the water wrapping her arms around him, pulling him ever the more inexorably down into finality.

He could feel his life leaving him slowly as his memories bled away like mist evaporating at the coming of morning only beyond that morning there was no existence save for a blinding stillness adorned in light. If it were possible to be born in reverse then he would have said that death resembled such a thing, for at first he recognized the people in his memories: Thingol, Melian, Lúthien, Beleg, Galathil, Galadriel, but gradually the names grew fainter and fainter until they were nothing more than unfamiliar faces: a silver haired man, a dark-haired youth, a girl with hair like sunlight. A moment ago they had had names…but no…they were strangers now.

_"Adar?" He rubbed small hands over sleepy eyes and, in the dim light of the stars, blinked up at the still blurry shape hovering above him, but though his vision had not yet cleared, he knew well that gentle touch, the soft kiss pressed now against his forehead._

_He could hear fires crackling in the distance, the quiet hubbub of the night watchers' conversations. "I'm going hunting," his father whispered, stroking his son's silver hair back from his small forehead. Galadhon's own hair shone as bright as the stars as well, a lone light in the dark._ The memory faded to black and another swam into view.

_An elven maid with hair of gold and every fiber of her being imbued with a magnificent power so that he stood in awe, having half forgot who he was or what he had been doing while he watched with rapt wonder as she stood slender as a reed in the dying light of summer, her eyes fixed upon his as if she too beheld some marvel. In those eyes as pale as morning he had seen unfathomable pain and suffering beyond measure, and yet she stood, tall as a queen and just as proud, unbreakable as the foundations of the earth. In his mind at that first moment he had called her…_

But the name had faded from his memory and in a final fit of desperation he struggled to hold on to that last small and precious thing, for though he could no longer recall her name, he somehow knew that this memory, that she…was the most important thing, his most treasured thing…but no…it was fading now, the way that things faded to white when you stared for too long at the sun and then…then it was gone.

And, just as he was about to slip over that horizon into that unknown and unknowing world beyond the edge of things he felt some tug, as if at his heartstrings, and a light passing into him as if through a single, fragile thread. But the thread was growing thicker now, more secure, less tenuous, tendrils of shining, glowing, magnificent light wrapping around it, binding to it. Like a weaver passing a shuttle through a loom some unseen soul was binding the threads of his life back together. He knew then that he was not alone, that there was another, another soul who stood against the tide, and against time and the stars, and against everything.

"Do not leave me, do not leave me alone in this world where I cannot find you," he heard a voice, not pleading but commanding and then he saw the face of a being, not woman or man, but the raw power of a soul unclothed, more radiant than the dawn in a flash of blinding white light, as though this being had forced the darkness away through will alone. "Ilúvatar," he gasped, for who else could this be save heaven herself. Then slowly the image faded from dawn into night and he slept again for a time in the deepness of the earth.

*****

It was strange to see Thingol so still and cold, Galadriel thought as she stood alone by his bier, the light of a thousand candles casting an eerie glow onto his pale face. His body had been washed, cleaned, and mended as best they had been able, his ice-blue eyes were closed forever, his long silver hair brushed out straight until it shone like the tail of a comet.

It was always strange to see someone in death, but even more so someone who had been so vibrant, so powerful, so very…alive. Thingol had always felt things so wholly, whether it had been anger, or joy, or sadness, and to see him now devoid of those passions was sobering, surreal. She could hardly believe that she would never hear his great booming laugh again, never see that twinkle in his eye or that fierce calculating look of his either, never see that broad, carefree smile that reminded her so much of…

The sight of him sent a shiver down Galadriel's back, for Olwë, bore such a strong resemblance to his older brother, save for the color of their hair, that it might as well have been her own grandfather laid out there. The killing had begun in Alqualondë, but like the sea it had swept to theses shores as well. _How many more of the Teleri will die?_ She thought to herself. _And why are they the ones who suffer for the crimes of the Noldor?_ In that moment she well understood Celeborn's disdain for the Valar.

She tried to remind herself that it was not all chance nor could the blame be entirely placed elsewhere, but that Thingol had, in part, brought this upon himself…yet what good was it? He still had not deserved death and who was she to be the judge of him, or of anyone? Placing blame would not bring him back, it would not undo the trespasses of days gone past, it would not save them, could not save them now.

His hair drew her eye again, silver, like Celeborn's, silver as the edge of a blade. The thoughts swam up unbidden like bile, the memory of the horrific sight of Thingol dead, of Celeborn at his side, torn and broken. For a moment she had thought them both dead and she remembered how faint, and fragile, and frail Celeborn's heartbeat had been, how cold he had felt, how unlike himself. The thoughts threatened to drag her down into the abyss of despair and so she turned away, gasping, hand clutched to her chest, unable to endure the sight anymore. _Maybe the worst thing about death,_ she thought, _is that it makes you into someone you do not know before the end._

The caves had all gone dark now that Melian was gone and the ceiling was just a ceiling. No longer did the stars twinkle there or the sun and moon traverse an enchanted sky. The girdle must be gone as well, she knew, and even if she hadn't weakened herself so severely by channeling her life into Celeborn she had not sufficient strength to do what Melian had done. She was no Maia. The silver lantern she carried in her hand lit her way and the fireflies that danced through the dark corridors provided some welcome light as she made her way back to the houses of healing.

She had hardly left Celeborn's side through this ordeal, though the healers had assured her he would live, that he would wake eventually, but she had deemed it appropriate to pay her final respects to Thingol and so she had gone. But it wasn't only because she wished to be by Celeborn's side that she dreaded leaving the safe haven of the healers, but also because the rumors were beginning to spread. Thingol's death and the betrayal by the dwarves had caused panic, and worse, suspicion to seep through Menegroth like poison. Tensions had grown once more between the Sindar, the Avari, the Nandor, and most especially between all of these and the Noldorin refugees from Nargothrond. As it did, ill will turned towards her.

Galathil was kind, and fair and…too much like Orodreth. Though he had managed to keep his wits about him thus far, he had not Celeborn's knack for leadership, nor the strength of will to do the unpleasant tasks that, now more than ever, needed doing. And, as the days and weeks passed in which Celeborn did not wake, her worry for him and for this kingdom grew. She knew that Mablung had sent word to Beren and Lúthien, that they would be coming to take control of Doriath, but she also knew it would take some time for them to arrive and in the meantime the role of king regent was being played by Galathil, though it should have been Celeborn, had he not been so badly injured. And she knew that, more than anyone, Galathil wished that the heavy crown had not fallen to him.

The houses of healing had taken on a phantasmal appearance, lit by a few silver lanterns here and there that cast meager light upon the long curtains that divided the beds, rising up into darkness. She tried to walk as quietly as she was able but the place was nearly deserted and her footsteps echoed in the stone caverns. She pulled back the curtains that surrounded Celeborn's bed and stepped inside, closing them behind her and setting the lantern on its stand, opening the little glass door. There was plenty of oil in it. _But I ought to trim the wick soon,_ she thought, when a rustling noise caught her attention and she turned so quickly that she nearly sent the lantern tumbling to the floor.

"Celeborn!" She exclaimed, her voice an elated whisper in the silence. He was sitting up, or trying to at least, and he wore a look of complete and utter awe upon his face, as though he were simultaneously lost and amazed. She wanted nothing more than to embraced him, to throw her arms about him and weep with immense feeling of relief that had blossomed in her heart like a forest rose but she dared not touch him for fear of agitating his injuries. "Rest, rest!" She said, seating herself upon the edge of the bed, taking his hand in hers. "Do not tax yourself!"

He looked at her curiously for a moment, that same awestruck look in his eye, and said, "by the grace of Ilúvatar, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I thought for a moment that I was walking in a field of stars when I saw you." Galadriel smiled, blushing at her beloved's praise. She couldn't have cared less for the extravagant words, for the joy that was filling her heart so that it nearly overflowed now was because he was awake and alive; nothing else mattered.

"Oh I was so worried," she said, her voice a trembling whisper as she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his brow. Tears were leaking from her eyes now and she reached up to wipe them away, smiling for his benefit, so that he would know that it was not from sorrow that she wept. "I suppose I have just been holding it all in," she remarked, "until now, until I knew that you were out of death's door. But it has been so hard: trying to be strong," she drew a trembling breath and released it. The words seemed so foolish and small but there was nothing she could think of to say that could ever convey how she felt at this moment, that strange and overwhelming synthesis of bitter pain and the sweetness of joy.

Celeborn looked at her quizzically, his green eyes turning fully to hers, confusion in their depths. "Where am I?" He asked. "What happened to me?" He looked down, at the bandages that covered his arms, his bare chest, his stomach, and then reached up to feel the gauze that was bound around his forehead, covering the wound where the dwarves had tried to scalp him. His hands were unsteady, unsure, trembling.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Galadriel said softly, reaching out to gently gather his hands into her own once more. "No one is entirely sure what happened down there between you, Thingol, and the dwarves, though of course there has been a good deal of conjecture. Your wounds…they were very bad, Celeborn, though the healers have assured me that you will mend completely given time…"

"Who are you?" He asked, interrupting her. He turned his eyes up to her once more, shaking his head, his brow furrowed, "and why do you care for me so?"

"I," Galadriel started and stopped, confused for a moment, a small and uncomfortable laugh escaping her. "One who loves you," she said at last with a smile, though she wanted to chide him, to tell him that this was not the time for silly jokes. But Celeborn only seemed all the more perplexed by what she had said.

"What is your name?" He asked her. "You…you speak with an accent…" He cocked his head, curious. "Where are you from?"

Galadriel opened her mouth and then shut it again, at a loss for words. "I…I'm Galadriel," she said, feeling as though her mind had gone blank.

"That is a beautiful name," Celeborn said with a kind smile. "It suits you."

"You…you gave it to me," Galadriel stammered, the realization of what had happened beginning to dawn on her. It felt as though he were slipping away, as though she was truly losing him now, even though he had threaded his fingers through hers. "You gave it to me!" She said again, desperate, as though the words could force him to remember.

"Do I know you?" He asked her, seeming worried, realizing that it was something he had done that was causing her this pain.

"Of course you know me," she exclaimed. "I am your betrothed." The tears had risen unbidden again, running down her face like drops of spring dew, and he reached up with his weak and trembling hand, wiping them away though they did not stop falling.

"Do not cry, Galadriel," he said, his eyes filled with concern. "You are even lovelier when you weep, so lovely I cannot bear it. But I can hardly bring myself to believe what you have said, for I do not know what I could possibly have done to win the love of such a compassionate lady."

His words were too much for her to bear and she stood, grabbing the lantern and pushing through the curtains, practically running down the rows of curtained beds. Her footsteps had brought the healers running and it was Inwen who reached her first. "Galadriel?" She said, taking her hand in hers, her eyes quick with worry. "Is something the matter? Has he taken a turn for the worse?"

Galadriel shook her head, feeling as though her heart were pounding in her throat. "He is awake," she said, "but he remembers nothing. He could not even recall my name…He knows me not."

*****

"You called me?" Paniel heard the soft voice, the gentle voice, but she did not look up, dared not look up. Her heart was leaping about in her chest like a jackrabbit, fluttering nervously. She had half hoped he would not come and for a moment she thought she might be sick. She scrubbed harder, staring down intently at the dress. The laundries were dark, deserted, and she heard him shuffling about anxiously, approaching nervously.

"Yes," she said finally, simply. She would rather have said nothing but she had to make some sort of reply. He was quiet for a while before he spoke again.

"Are you going to tell me why?" He asked.

"Does it matter?" She said, looking up at last, glaring at him. She wondered if it was madness that had driven her to write the message to him.

"No," Mablung offered her a small smile and leaned up against the wall. "I would happily sit here all evening and watch you scrub that dress." She knew he meant it.

"You've been gone weeks now," she said curtly, cutting off his line of inquiry. She had no use for his romanticisms and she did not wish to follow them to where they would lead.

"We had to send word to Lúthien and Beren, to track down the dwarves," he replied, stretching.

"And did you?" She asked. He nodded.

"They're all dead now. Not that it makes much difference as they've already dealt us the heaviest of blows," he shook his head. Silence stretched between them. "I never thought it would come to this," he said softly and she looked up briefly, her eyes meeting his for a moment in which she understood that his world, like hers, had been destroyed in the matter of a moment.

"It won't come out," she said, turning her attention back to the Galadriel's gown as if to distract the both of them from the immensity of doom that hung over them. It wouldn't. She had tried every trick she knew and still the great, horrid bloodstains remained. "It's ruined." She scrubbed harder.

"Some stains never come out," Mablung murmured and she slowed, stilling her fierce scrubbing. "That doesn't make a thing any less precious."

She stilled, casting the brush down, wiping her soapy hands on her skirt, turning her eyes towards his, but Mablung looked down at his folded hands, smiling and shaking his head, a small laugh escaping him. "All those years ago I searched for you…I should have known," he said, "that you were in the laundries, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning," he laughed, "cleaning everything just like you used to; trying to clean yourself, no matter how many times I told you that you weren't dirty." Paniel rose to her feet, her heart thundering. It was now or never - before she lost the nerve to do what she had summoned him for.

"I'm not," she said, believing it for perhaps the first time, "I'm not unclean." Mablung looked up, startled, his eyes widening. He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall at his sides and then he smiled, that uneven smile of his, the left side of his mouth rising higher than the right, seeming suddenly shy and embarrassed as if he knew not what to do.

"I've been trying to tell you that for ages," he said with a shy little laugh, looking down. Paniel thought she might even have seen a hint of a blush on his face. "Only you never listen to me…or to anyone really," he mumbled. But she had already crossed the room, taking his face in her hands and he looked at her in surprise, his eyes searching hers as though he wondered whether he had done something wrong.

"Mablung," she whispered, "I marry you. With Eru Ilúvatar as my witness I marry you. I marry you." He stared at her in shock for an instant and she feared in the span of that heartbeat that his feelings towards her had changed, that this sudden leap of faith was all for naught.

But then the tears welled in his eyes and, blinking them away, he whispered, "I marry you Paniel. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar I marry you. I marry you." Then his lips met hers for the first time, tentative, unsure, and she opened her mouth to the unfamiliar taste of him. She felt his arms wrap around her, holding her tight, and his hands were trembling so badly she could hardly believe it.

"I love you," she whispered into his mouth, tears running down her cheeks. "I always have…only I never knew how to trust you until that day." Their kiss intensified and now they were unafraid, her hands quickly and nimbly unbuckling the straps that fastened his armor, his hands deftly undoing the laces of her bodice as clothing made its way to the floor and at last they stood naked before one another.

"You are sure?" Mablung asked, concern evident in his eyes, but Paniel nodded, unafraid.

"My life is not his," she said. "My life is my own and I will do with it as I chose, not as the past dictates."

"If this is your choice then I respect it," Mablung said, his eyes filled with great affection, and, at long last, she felt the beginning of a strange sensation tugging at the corners of her mouth: a smile. Then she reached up to the long rows of shelves holding freshly laundered sheets of cotton and silk and linen, newly pressed and folded, and she pulled them from the shelves, tossing them into the air where they unfurled like banners and floated like many colored streamers to the floor in an array of whites, and blues, and golds. She sat down in the midst of them, her eyes lit with resolution, and extended her hand to him.

"Come Mablung," she said, "I have made our bed. Now will you make me your wife?" He joined her there amidst the smell of soap and cleanliness, his hands gentle, his kisses tender, and slowly, with all the care in the world, they joined. It was not what she had thought it would be, not pain, and pushing, and taking. Rather, it was giving, and pleasure and, more than that - joy, trust. It was slow careful movement and lips soft on skin, hands that were gentle and caring, that left no doubt in her mind that Mablung loved her just as much as he said he did and even more, until suddenly she was crying aloud not in agony, but in a sort of bliss she had never known, while he gasped, holding her tight, so close that neither she nor he existed as they felt their souls seeping into each other, melding to form one heart beating between the two of them before they collapsed into each other.

Afterwards, lounging in the loose embrace of his strong arms, she traced his skin with her fingertips, her eyes lost in his gaze as, smiling, he stroked her hair, and their thoughts and feelings flowed between them like water, a perfect confluence. She didn't need to say it out loud for him to know, not anymore, but she did it all the same, "this is the first time," she said, "that I ever remember feeling safe and happy."

"May it be the first of many," Mablung said, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow.

*****

"It may take some time for him to recover his memories," Inwen said, a look of gentle concern on her face as she and Galadriel sat together in a small antechamber. "He lost a great deal of blood and the injuries he sustained to his head were quite severe, but hopefully all of his memories will return in time."

"Hopefully…" Galadriel said, the dreaded word dropping from her lips. "It has been weeks now."

"I can't promise…" Inwen began to say.

"No, I understand. My apologies," Galadriel said, her voice as tense as her body felt and Inwen squeezed her hand.

"I know it must be terribly difficult," the dark-haired healer said, meeting her eyes. "I would never wish such a thing on anyone." Galadriel nodded, but her heart was not in the conversation, caught up instead in her worry. "It is…" Inwen started again, her voice tentative, "…it is a good sign though that some of his memories are returning."

"Yes of course," Galadriel said tersely, standing and wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she paced back and forth in pinched and hurried steps. "Of course," she said again, more to fill the air than anything else. He was remembering some things now: the attack in the smithies, how Thingol had died. He had recognized Galathil's face after only a few days. And there were other memories, more distant memories that had surfaced, dark memories that caused him to shout and weep in the dead of night.

"Galadriel," Inwen stood but Galadriel could not find it in her heart to look at her, for she knew she would weep if she did. "I am no expert in these illnesses of the mind but…I have heard other healers say that in such cases the memories that people hold most dear are those that are the most painful to lose and thus they are the most difficult to recover."

Galadriel nodded numbly, feeling horribly selfish and wretched for being concerned over such a thing. "If I…you know of our bond…if I were to…" she toyed nervously with the silver band on her finger, "if I were to show him the memories…"

Inwen was silent for a moment before giving the answer that Galadriel had anticipated. "If you thought that was a good idea you would already have done it," she said softly, "and you would not have asked my opinion. He will remember when he is ready and…when he remembers then perhaps, slowly, you might let him see them."

Galadriel nodded stiffly and, conscious of what an uncomfortable position she must be putting the healer in, she said hastily, "I…I'll go to him. He is probably wondering where I've got to," turning on her heel and sweeping from the room. She played idly with her hands as she walked, pulling at the skin of her cuticles. As she had expected, she found Celeborn where she had left him with Galathil. They were in a less used ward of the houses of healing with a long and secluded veranda that looked out over the gardens below. It had been a very long, slow, and difficult walk for him from his bed to this place but she had thought that the sight of growing natural things might revive him somewhat and he had wanted to try walking a bit today.

He turned as she emerged through a curtain of ivy, tension evident in the way he was holding his body, and worry in his eyes. Galathil stood, a pleasant smile on his face as he took her aside. She found herself extraordinarily happy for the younger prince's ability, so unlike his brother, to feign joy when his heart was greatly troubled. Something about it soothed her aching heart if only a little.

"How is he today?" She asked in a whisper and, now that Galathil's back was turned to his brother, she saw the worry he let show in his eyes and the weariness that seemed to sit so heavy upon his brow.

"Somewhat better," he said, pursing his lips and then drawing them into a thin nervous line, "if one can call the remembrance of foul things better than having forgot them. He is still preoccupied with Thingol's death, with Melian, with what has happened with the dwarves…his thoughts today are very dark." Galadriel nodded numbly and Galathil reached out, clasping her hand in his. "I am so sorry all this has happened to you," he said, his kind grey eyes filled with unshed tears, his voice hoarse, "and on the day which ought to have been the happiest."

Galadriel drew a deep, shuddering breath and nodded once more, squeezing Galathil's hand briefly before letting go. "If it were in us to choose our fates perhaps there would be a great deal more happiness in the world," she said and Galathil sighed, nodding to her once more before bowing and making a hasty exit. She knew that this was just as hard on Galathil as it was on her, even more so perhaps as he had been saddled with the unexpected and unwanted mantle of power.

She turned back towards Celeborn though he was not looking at her, his eyes dark and tormented as he stared out into the gardens, but she could tell that his mind was focused elsewhere. Slowly, quietly, she seated herself at his side, feeling as if her body and soul weighed more than the earth itself.

"There are…" she began, broaching the silence, her mind occupied by the papers that she had found, "things that we must show you once you are well, once you have regained your memory." He did not turn towards her but continued to stare into space, his eyes dark, his countenance troubled.

"My brother said the same," he murmured. Galathil he had remembered after only a little time. Galadriel drew a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap as Celeborn shifted, his breath catching at the movement agitated his wounds.

"Thingol wanted me to wear the Silmaril," Celeborn said and Galadriel looked up, startled.

"Do you remember the wedding?" She asked, faint hope burgeoning in her heart, hope that dissipated in the next instant as he shook his head.

"No, I remember going to the smithies with him, I remember what happened there," Celeborn said. "I remember… I don't remember you…" Galadriel opened her mouth to speak but he passed over the thought so quickly that it seemed nigh inconsequential to him. "He deceived me, betrayed me," Celeborn whispered. "I am ashamed that I once called him father." The anger seemed to exhaust him and he leaned back against the bench, his face twitching with pain.

"He made mistakes," Galadriel said after a moment of thought, "just as we all have. You cannot expect perfection from him, Celeborn, either in life or death. And, besides, all is not yet clear, the extent of his culpability is still in flux. We do not yet know everything." All fell silent.

"The dwarves…" Celeborn grunted.

"Dead," she affirmed. "Mablung and the wardens tracked them, slew them, reclaimed the Silmaril." Celeborn shook his head.

"The thing ought to be cast into the sea," he murmured.

"When you are well enough you shall be king and then you may do with it as you wish," she said. "But will Galathil not rid us of it?"

"He is undecided," Celeborn said after a pause, "for Dior has urged him to keep it. That is what he came to tell me."

"Oh," Galadriel said, her heart troubled, and their conversation lapsed into silence, each of them staring out into the blackness of the caverns, the silver lanterns illuminating the dark canopy of the trees that the veranda looked out over. Fireflies flitted here and there in clouds of twinkling golden light, yet there was a darkness and solemnity to these halls that there had not been before and Galadriel felt as though happiness would never again bloom in these gardens or in this palace for a moment before the premonition faded like the dying of the light of day.

"I…" she turned at the sound of Celeborn's voice to find that he had drawn himself out of his reverie at last and was watching her curiously now, a quizzical look upon his face. "I apologize," he said. "This must be very difficult for you and yet still you come to me every day, sit with me. That is what you went to speak to the healers about just now, is it not?" His voice trailed off, giving way to a certain awkwardness that Galadriel sought to diminish.

"Of course it is difficult," she said. "But I promised to love you without conditions and I do…love you unconditionally I mean. You will remember with time I trust." Even as she said them her words felt curiously unfeeling to her, hollow, and she knew it was in part because she did not believe herself that he would ever be able to recall his memories of her, in part because it felt very strange to confess love to someone who did not know you. She wanted nothing more than to recall all of the memories, to push them into his mind through their bond but Inwen had cautioned her against it. Yet, it was strange to sit beside someone she knew better than anyone and find he knew her not at all.

"It is hard for me as well," he said and she looked up, startled, a hint of surprise in her eyes but Celeborn only smiled. "Do you think," he said, "that it is easy for me to sit beside such an astounding woman, knowing that I must have kissed her once upon a time, and not be able to remember it at all?"

Despite everything, that managed to bring a smile to her lips and, more than that a small and startled laugh, but a laugh of joy nevertheless. "You hardly know me," she murmured, "so I am forced to suspect that you only think about kissing me because of my beauty."

"A woman who knows her own power…" he said with a nod and a benign grin, staring off into space, "and wields it like a sword, adding to my wounds. Can you not imagine that it is because I care for you, the woman who so carefully nurses me back to health each day?"

Galadriel only snorted with suppressed laughter, rolling her eyes as a broad smile parted her lips. "You're being facetious," she said.

"Was I good at that?" He asked with a grin.

"At what?" She asked, feeling shy now for some reason. "Do you mean kissing, being facetious, or making me laugh?"

"Well I was going to say making you laugh," he told her, "but now you've made me wonder about all three." It seemed as if he had wished to say more but instead he hissed in pain, leaning back against the bench, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched tightly.

"The pains again?" She asked, her heart accelerating, and he remained quiet for a moment before he answered with a stiff nod. Gradually he relaxed, the tentative smile returning to his face, and she thought to make him laugh as he had made her laugh, to help him forget the pain for a moment.

"Well, whatever the state of your memories," she said, "I can see that you otherwise haven't changed a bit."

"Is that so?" Celeborn asked with a chuckle. "Was I this intolerable before?"

"Very," she said, watching as he cocked his head as if all of a sudden, something had risen to the front of his mind.

"Do you know," he said after a pregnant pause, his gaze fixed upon the gardens below, "now that you have reminded me of how very troublesome I can be, there is something about that tree that seems familiar." He gestured to the large oak and Galadriel swallowed hard, for it was familiar to her as well. "Was I…I feel as though I remember sitting in that tree, agitating you and…and then I was here, in the houses of healing."

"Yes," Galadriel said breathlessly, her hands trembling, her heart fluttering madly in her chest, "yes, you poured water on my head and I threw a potato at you and…"

"And I fell and broke my arm," Celeborn supplied, laughing.

"Yes, that's right," Galadriel gasped, nodding vigorously, feeling as though her heart was about to burst out of her chest.

"I touched your hair," he said, his eyes glimmering with joy, "and you almost touched mine…"

"And Thingol interrupted us," Galadriel gasped, her hands trembling so badly now that she could not steady them and she turned away, feeling as if the air had grown too thick, drawing a deep breath before turning back to him hastily only to find that all of a sudden his hand was about her waist, his other cupping her cheek.

"Are you going to…" she gasped.

"Yes," he murmured, a depth to his voice that betrayed the emotions that were blossoming in both their hearts, beginning to pass between them like slender, glowing, threads of light that slowly knit their souls together. Her eyes flickered to his for a moment before fluttering shut, and then she felt his lips firm and demanding against her own, opening her mouth to him she kissed him back with equal fervor as a bright shining light split the horizon like lightning, the memory of how he had first kissed her lapped at the shores of her mind, traversing the current of her heart to his. And that same swell of feeling that she had felt so long ago, as if the whole world now lay open to them, a whole life to be lived not in the shadow of fear, but in the promise of freedom and happiness.

They broke apart, eyes wide, hands clasped, chests heaving. "I remember, I remember when I kissed you," Celeborn gasped, his voice thick with emotion. "I remember…I had to…how could I not after I had seen the whole world in your eyes?" He sat still in amazement, as if frozen in time, but Galadriel felt desperation rising in her, clawing at her throat as it worked its way up, manifesting itself in words.

"Let us run away together into the east across the mountains, just the two of us," she gasped, blinking away burgeoning tears. "We can live in a tree and I will grow plants and weave our clothes, and you can hunt, and we will be perfectly, perfectly happy and perfectly, perfectly alone," she whispered, sounding for all the world as if she wanted to do nothing more than weep until she could not weep any longer. "I have thought the whole thing out," she said, "just you and me." Celeborn turned her face towards him, wiping away the tears that welled from her eyes even as he felt her delicate hand against his face, doing the same.

"You know I cannot," he whispered, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Galadriel caught his hand in her own, pressing the knuckles to her lips, kissing them with lips that trembled from the effort it took to hold back her tears, "but if you wish to go I shall not hold you to a promise you made to a man who barely remembers you."

"I'll not leave you," Galadriel said, her eyes flashing fiercely as she looked up at him. Their gazes met in the silence of a second, each as resolute as the other, until that silence was shattered by the faint and distant sound of screams. They only had time to be startled for a moment before Inwen emerged onto the veranda, her eyes wide with fright, her face white, her hands trembling.

"The dwarves have returned," she gasped, "with a great army and all of the guards on our borders have been overpowered. They are at the gates even now and Galathil…he is no soldier…"

*****

**Footnotes:** Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! If you have any more meta questions for the epilogue please let me know.

Also, I think I am going to commission some art. If you feel so inclined, can you guys tell me in the comments what your two most favorite scenes from the whole fic are and a nice person will draw them for us?


	37. The Waning Moon

  
**The Waning Moon**

In Cavern's Shade: 37th Chapter

*****

"I don't want so much misery  
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,  
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,  
half frozen, dying of grief."  


\- _Walking Around,_ Pablo Neruda

*****

**Author's note: Please be advised that you are reading an M rated story.**

Sooooo sorry this took so long. I was really having a lot of trouble with Celeborn. He completely shut down emotionally and it was really hard to get anything out of him. Character profile is at the end for reasons that will soon become clear. Also, it takes me a really long time to do the formatting on this story for both my FF.net account and my Ao3 account because this story is so long. So, for these last few chapters, the story will always be posted on my FF.net account much earlier than this one. If you want to read the new chapters as soon as I publish them please check my FF.net account, my name is the same there. As always, thank you so, so, so much for your wonderful comments. It is such a joy to read the things you have to say and it really helps me with writing the story and with improving my writing. I appreciate it so much. Thank you!

*****

_The branches of the two trees draped like great vines of wisteria throughout Tirion, spreading here and there, pushing through holes in walls, climbing lattices like ivy on the sides of houses, leaves and branches dripping with lush light that pooled in puddles of flowers. The silver of Telperion had gone dull, light latent and pulsing slowly within, but the gold of Laurelin shone with vibrant radiance, casting its glow about the whole city, and Artanis was lying now on her back across a stone bench in the great square beneath the Mindon, reading by the light of Laurelin's branches, fanning herself idly in the late afternoon heat._

_The ladies, she thought to herself, were like delicate pastries, their fine clothes and makeup melting away like frosting on a cake in the humid heat of this season of growth. But she had little care for such things as proper dress and decorum, her long golden hair tied back in a thick braid that she had bound up on her head, stray hairs floating about lazily here and there in the breeze. Gowns were not for her, she had decided long ago. Breeches and shirts were much more her fashion, just like the ones she wore now. The people laughed, and sniggered, and called her Nerwen and Finarfin's tomboy but what care had she for such pettiness when there were so many more interesting things to occupy her mind?_

_She had taken to pilfering books from her grandfather's study, which was why she was here now, in the square outside his house, a little leather-bound treasure held carefully in her hands, eager fingertips turning the pages as quickly as her voracious eyes could drink in the words and drawings inscribed there. "Elwë…" she whispered, her fingers brushing over the drawing of her grandfather Olwë's brother as if in feeling the lines she might be able to communicate with this strange elf in his strange land, feel the angles of his face just as surely as she could feel the raised lines of ink beneath the tips of her fingers._

_She turned the page, her eyes alighting on a map of Middle Earth and she felt the spirit of adventure swell in her heart like a river at flood. What wonders might be there, what hidden glades and glens, what secret meadows filled with golden grass, what crystal waterfalls plunging from shining cliffs of white stone to tumble to great roaring rivers below? She gasped softly, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her legs before crossing them at the ankles, biting her lip as a broad grin spread across her face. She could almost picture those places in her mind from the fragments of the stories that Olwë and Finwë had told her, picture the dark elves that lived there, people of the twilight._

_"Now how are you going to find a husband with your nose stuck in a book all day?" A familiar voice asked and she sighed, rolling her eyes, looking up._

_"Cousin," she said with a laugh, well her half cousin really, but who had the time for such long and cumbersome titles, especially amongst such close kin? "That is hardly my concern," she giggled. "Fie! Let them come to me. Why should I have to go about searching for them? I have more important matters to occupy my time." And yet, her heart was not as carefree as her countenance would have had him believe._

_She wondered if that was why…why he was here…if Celebrimbor had told him what had happened. It had all been in good fun at first, when he had kissed her down by the lake, a quick peck that had caused her to laugh and slap him._

_"What are you doing?" She had exclaimed._

_"Kissing you," Celebrimbor had laughed, a merry twinkle in his eyes._

_"No you're not!" She had laughed with incredulity that he had quickly silenced, taking her hand and drawing her close, kissing her again. And she had let him; she had kissed him back, knowing that she shouldn't, but something about him made her reckless. They had both been inexperienced, unsure, broken apart after a few moments, laughing nervously, sweaty fingers closed about each other._

_The next time had been a bit more daring, hiding behind the stables by his father's house. The kisses were not so innocent…their hands were even less so. For her it had been an exploration, the same way that she dreamed of Middle Earth, this too was a foray into the unknown, an adventure of sorts. For him it had been something more; she had seen it in his eyes…and that was when she had understood that whatever she had felt for him paled in comparison to what he felt for her._

_But she had not rightly known her own feelings; how could she have? She had been young and inexperienced in many things, love not the least of them, and so her response had been to avoid Celebrimbor, and his had been to seek her out all the more, puzzled by her sudden frigidity, which she had guarded within, far from his sparking flame._

_Was that what frightened her about him? Perhaps it hadn't been at all that she felt nothing for him, no, even as she thought it she knew that to say she had never loved Celebrimbor would be a lie. Perhaps it had been the ephemerality of it, the emotions that came in breaking waves to crash upon the shore before they were quickly withdrawn, that moved like the ocean at tide, in and then out again, that passed like the seasons, dying to be reborn and then fading just as quickly. When she was with Celebrimbor it was as though she had become possessed by some madness: as if colors were more vibrant, as if smells were more fragrant, fire hotter, cold more bitter._

_Curufin seated himself at her side as she sat up, closing the book in her lap, and she glanced toward him, wondering what he meant to say, if he knew what she and his son had been doing, if he had come to chastise her for it. "You can't wait for everything to come to you, Nerwen," Curufin said with a chuckle. "Some things you must go out and claim for yourself, suitors included."_

_"You sound like Uncle Fëanor with all your talk of conquering," she said with a wry grin, smoothing her hand over the leather-bound book in her lap. Uncle Fëanor who had not so long ago waylaid her on her way home from her grandfather's house after a party, who had, by the light of Telperion arrested her with a hand on her arm, who had pulled her into the shadows where she had felt that peculiar heat of his, as if he himself were made of flame, burning against her back._

_She remembered it so distinctly because it was the first time she had felt true fear, had understood it, as Fëanor's arm had circled her waist, pulling her close, his face buried in her hair, and she realized that he was stronger than her, that she would not be able to break free. It was with shock - cold, and silent, and deadly like ice dripping down her back - that she grasped hold of the terrifying truth that the name Nerwen was but a pretense, that she was not as strong as a man, that if he wanted he could imprison her mind in the frail shell of her body that he could bend to his will all too easily._

_"You are so beautiful," he had murmured into her ear from behind, the scent of alcohol reaching her nose as the hand around her waist moved lower, still gripping her just as firmly, lower, cupping her where she knew he shouldn't, his middle finger pressing against her, sliding upwards. She froze, hating her traitorous body for its refusal to move, her mind gone blank, unable to comprehend, unable to accept what was happening; it was unthinkable. "I could immortalize you in materials far more enduring than the weakness of flesh," he whispered in her ear, his hands gripping her more tightly. Her chest felt tight at the thought, her mind screaming in horror, no longer horror that her body was within his grasp, but now the stark rattling fear that he could beguile her thoughts as well. For he had just now shown her the weakness of her body, even as he offered her escape from that selfsame weakness._

_She could feel her heart pounding in her chest like a hammer, her breath coming in quick, pinched, painful gasps, her stomach turning with revulsion. "Let me go. This is unnatural," she managed to choke out, but Fëanor either hadn't heard her or had no care to heed her words. Or…perhaps it was because he sensed her hesitation…because he knew that his words had taken root, burrowing deep into the crevices of her mind, making their home there and scattering their seeds: weakness would never satisfy her; it was power that she wanted._

_"I would place your hair in indelible crystal," he whispered in her ear, "and not just any crystal either, but one of my own making, crafted of my own being, my own fëa, and you and I would burn together." It had been that, that mention of her and him that had tipped the scale against him, that had caused her disgust to rally, but shame now flooded into her heart, pulsing hot and heavy with the wetness of tears yet unshed: shame that she was as he had said, that she was weak, that she had even considered the thought._

_"Stop it! Stop it!" Artanis had shrieked, pushing him away with all of her strength, trembling, tears in her eyes as she turned to fix him with a glare. She wished she felt strong but she didn't; she felt as though she was about to cry like a child. "You're drunk!" She cried, balling her hands into quivering fists. Fëanor grinned, his copper eyes sparking like coals in the dark. "What…what need have I for such a thing?" She stammered. "Am I not immortal already…am I…am I…" She could not think of what else to say and a grin twisted its way across Fëanor's face in the wake of her words._

_"Flesh is weak," he said with quiet confidence as if he had perceived her thoughts so clearly. "It may be cleaved and torn, desecrated, destroyed…touched without consent."_

_"Not here, not in Aman," she had replied, her voice trembling, unsure of whether she believed her own words or not. Fëanor cocked his head quizzically._

_"Your mother's people have a saying do they not?" Feanor said, his disdain for the Teleri dripping from his words. "Don't count your cygnets before they're hatched." He paused, taking a step forward and she moved back. She wasn't sure if he had done it because he wanted to draw closer or because he wanted to prove that he could force her to step away. "Don't depend on things being as they always have been. Things are changing, Artanis," he said. "The noontide of the Noldor draws near and yet we are forced to live alongside and share our lands and our crafts with the Vanyar, with the Nelyar."_

_"Is that what angers you?" She spat defensively, her anger a safeguard, "or is it that you are forced to share your father's affection, and your power, and your glory with the children of Indis?"_

_"You insolent girl," Fëanor growled, reaching for her again, but she twisted away, staring straight into his eyes as if daring him to touch her again, though her heart trembled at the thought._

_"I'll tell my mother," she spat. "I'll tell her what you did to me, of the dark things you were speaking of."_

_"Will you?" Fëanor asked, turning away, and she hated him for it, hated him for knowing that she would not, that she would never have been able to bear the look on her mother's face, the horror she would suffer if she knew…that she might guess…_

_"Perhaps you ought to stop reading these books," Curufin mused with a small laugh, drawing her out of her memories as he took the book from her hand, turning it over, examining it. "They seem to make you even more inattentive than usual."_

_"I don't think so," she mumbled, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, as if the memory of Fëanor had been more of a warning than a memory. But it was just then that her need to wonder which it was came to an end, for the scene that began to unfold before them, that caused both her and Curufin to leap to their feet, left no doubt as to Fëanor's intentions._

_A great shout had arisen from within Finwë's house and, presently, Fingolfin exited his father's residence looking as though he were in a rather unusual rush and, at his heels came Fëanor, his hand on his sword, the sound of it being drawn - steel on steel - echoing about the courtyard. Fingolfin paused, turning back to his half-brother, unasked questions filling his eyes, but Fëanor took advantage of the moment to level the tip of his sword with his brother's breast and Fingolfin stilled, silent._

_"Artanis, go home," she heard her cousin's voice at her ear and turned to see the lines of Curufin's face clearly etched with worry. "Go home! Do you hear me? Go, now! Tell your family to stay inside!" His copper eyes so like his father's were filled with concern. She nodded numbly as Fëanor's words rang through the now crowded courtyard._

_"See, half-brother! This is sharper than your tongue. Try once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls." She glanced once more towards the door of the house, where Fingolfin stood still as stone, Fëanor's blade at his chest, and then frantically turned back to her cousin._

_"Curufin don't do anything rash!" She cried over the dinning of the crowd. "Don't do anything stupid!"_

_"Go! It isn't safe for you here!" Curufin cried frantically, pushing her away, and she fled through the streets, breathing hard, until she collided with someone solid and looked up to see her mother standing there, her eyes, blue as ice, flashing with anger and something else, something unfamiliar._

_"Your father had a seeing. I've been looking for you," Eärwen said, her voice deep and musical as the sea yet tinged with the tension of a hurricane. Her strong hand, calloused and used to taming the thick rough ropes of Telerin sailing ships, grasped her daughter's and then together they were fleeing back to Finarfin's house, feet pounding over cobblestones as slurs chased behind them, shouts of "third born," "silver siren," "half breed." It wasn't until the heavy door was firmly closed and barred behind them, until the guards had been set at their posts, that Artanis noticed the knife clutched in her mother's trembling hand._

_"It was nothing," she murmured, shaking her head, eyes on the floor, but she felt her mother's fingers strong beneath her chin, forcing her to look into her eyes. Eärwen's eyes were unnerving, clear as glass and yet blue beneath, like sea ice._

_"Something happened," the Telerin princess said, her voice low but taut with hidden rage, and Artanis knew what she meant, knew she could see the latent shame._

_"Nothing happened," Artanis replied, tearing away from her mother's grasp, angry footsteps echoing across the marble floor. She should have known she couldn't get away, not from her mother, and she felt her grasp on her wrist: strong, hard, painful, pulling her back around to face her. Eärwen's colorless face was flushed red._

_"He did something to you. I knew it!" She said, her nostrils flaring wide with anger._

_"It's nothing," Artanis ground out from between clenched teeth, her own anger rivaling her mother's. She tore free again and this time Eärwen did not follow, but when the night came and Telperion's silver light blossomed on the vines and branches that reached even here to her window, she found herself more sad than angry. Heaving a sigh she leaned back against the window frame, watching as the gentle breeze tossed the white curtains like sea foam in the night air that filtered in through the open window._

_That was precisely the moment that a small pebble had come hurtling past her eyes and through the window, causing her to start, gasping, and she grasped at the windowsill to steady herself, turning to look down from whence the pebble had come. The sight of a familiar face, a handsome face, smiling up at her provided some relief from her dark thoughts and she felt her lips quirk up into a small smile. "Celebrimbor…" the name left her lips like a breath and he motioned for her to come down. Without a second thought she grasped hold of Telperion's branches, climbing down the vines perhaps a bit too swiftly, her hands raw at the rough bark of the tree by the time she reached the bottom, where Celebrimbor caught her in his arms._

_She had thought she was finished with him, that whatever had been between them was done, but tonight something in her needed him, perhaps so that she could forget what had happened today, what had happened those years ago, perhaps to prove to herself that someone normal wanted her, that she was normal herself, that her body was her own to do with as she pleased. She didn't know the reason, but she kissed him, long and hard, and he kissed her back, laying her down there in the soft grass of the gardens beneath the cover of Telperion's boughs._

_His lips were hot on hers, scalding like fire, and then like a trail of flame along the curve of her neck as she felt his fingers, tentative, pulling at the hem of her skirt. She nodded, moaning against his shoulder, and then felt his fingers brush softly against her and gasped. He looked up, his gray eyes unsure, meeting hers, the question present in them and she nodded. "Yes," she whispered, inhaling long and deep as she felt his fingers gently push in, then his kisses, and at last the trembling shuddering pleasure that claimed her senses, set her nerves on fire, caused her to cry out silently, her mind going blank, all thought slipping away for a brief moment._

_Then it faded and Celebrimbor lay down by her side, panting, and she reached out, touching him. "You don't have to," he murmured, his eyes catching hers, watching her, mesmerized._

_"I want to," she whispered, pressing her lips against his, drawing back just enough then so that she could watch the way that his eyes changed, the emotion that welled in them, the way that he gave himself over at last to the same pleasure that had consumed her only a little bit ago. And it was as he threw his head back, as he cried out silently in wordless abandoned that she realized at last why she was doing this: because in a world where it seemed everything was about to be taken from her, she needed to know that something was hers, that there was something, someone who could take her away from this mess._

"What's wrong with you?" Celeborn's frantic voice tore through the cloud of memories that assaulted her and, gradually, the world swam back into view. Celeborn…he lost his calm in anger but never in fear, yet it was unmistakably fear that filled his voice now and she looked up into his green eyes - dark - _Moriquendi_ eyes. Surprised at her own thoughts she shook her head as if to clear them away, her heart reaching out, grasping for him like a drowning man at the hull of a ship.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked again, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her. She knew what he meant. She knew it was worry, that he feared something was the matter. And something was the matter, something was deeply the matter with her.

"Everything," she whispered at last, "everything is wrong with me." He looked at her quizzically for a moment, as if he did not comprehend what she had said and perhaps he did not, but she felt as though she was understanding it for the first time.

"The Silmaril," he said, hands firm on her shoulders, eyes boring into her own.

"The treasury," she stammered. "It's in the treasury." He turned away but, desperate, she reached out, grasping at his arm. "You can't go!" She pleaded, her heart thundering in her chest. "You can't! You've no…no weapon…You can hardly walk!"

He stepped forward, taking her arms in his hands, his grip tight, too tight, painful, his eyes a churning amalgamation of anger, pain, ferocity. "Those are my people out there dying," he said. "I may have forgotten many things, but I still remember who I am." Having so said, he turned on his heel, striding forward, fists clenched at his sides, and her heart trembled as he stumbled near the door, catching onto the frame before, with a movement that took him more effort than should have been necessary, he pulled the door open, screams echoing loudly in the moment before the door closed behind him, muffling them.

"Celeborn," Galadriel whispered to the silence, hands empty at her sides, trembling, her heart quenched in fear. She stepped to the door her hands resting softly against the wood for a moment before she pushed it open. What met her was chaos and she half stumbled, half was pulled out into the corridor and was immediately met by a stream of panicked elves flooding through the halls in abject darkness, shouting and screaming, some of them with blood smeared on their clothes. The torches had been extinguished and, the stars above having taken their leave with Melian, the entire city had been plunged into blackness, making escape near impossible as elves stumbled over one another in the dark, confused, unable to tell friend from foe.

Galadriel needed not a moment more to think or to act but threw the doors to the houses of healing open, a shaft of light penetrating the darkened corridors. "INSIDE!" she shouted, grabbing some of the other elves by their arms, physically forcing them into the houses of healing, and soon they began to understand, to follow, pushing their way in while she attempted to force her way out through the teeming press of elves, taking with her a lone candle in a tin and glass lantern that she held aloft, searching.

"Celeborn!" She shouted, turning here and there, buffeted about like a leaf in a tumbling river by the bustle of frantic elves trying to make their escape. "Celeborn!" She cried again but it was no use. Her voice was drowned by the shouts and screams, just one meaningless sound among many.

She pushed through them, struggling against the current, heading for the treasury, and it was when she at last managed to break free of the crowd, making her way through the smaller corridors and at last into one of the main thoroughfares that she beheld in the dim light of the lantern the harbinger of what horror was to come. The floor was slick with smeared blood beneath her feet, crimson as autumn leaves, and the brooks that traced their way through the earthen floor were awash with thick, black, congealed blood and gore that bobbed along the surface. Galadriel put a hand to her mouth, retching at the stench, stepping over the brooks where the colorful ornamental fish bobbed, belly-up, dead.

She had to step over bodies as she made her way through the wide passageway, corpses of elves full grown and children alike, cut open as though they were nothing more than carelessly discarded carcasses of wild animals. And she frantically cast the light of the lantern about, eyes searching for any sign of life, trembling fingers searching for pulses that she could not find. The flowers that had bloomed so lushly had been broken, trodden, trampled beneath fleeing feet and all was silent here, all unmoving, all dead. She reached the end of that corridor at last and turned to find, to her immense relief, that the light of the lantern had revealed Celeborn, standing as if paralyzed, staring into blankness, his clothes covered in blood.

"Celeborn!" She gasped, running to his side, and he turned to look vacantly at her. "This…this blood."

"Not my own," he said softly, staring down at his hands as if in disbelief and she knew by the look in his eyes that he had done the same as she, checked each body for signs of life and found none. He looked back up again, staring ahead. "I…I do not remember…where is the treasury?" He murmured turning, disoriented, as if he were in some horrific dream in which time had grown slow.

"This way," Galadriel murmured, her hand soft upon his, pulling him the opposite direction of where he had begun to head, "it's this way." Her ears were still echoing with the distant screams that reverberated throughout the caves, shouting in Sindarin, words she could not make out, and the emptiness of these halls only increased her unease. "Did you find a weapon?" She asked as they began to run.

"No," he said bitterly. "They were all unarmed." They ducked into a dark corridor and Celeborn suddenly came to a halt, reaching out to take her hand, arresting her movement. Panting, she stopped by his side, looking to him as he gazed into the darkness.

"What do you see?" She asked quietly, for he had grown to adulthood in darkness and was thus more accustomed to seeing where she could not. But, he said nothing and then slowly bent, pressing his ear to the ground.

"They put out the lights to use the darkness to their advantage," he murmured, eyes unfocused as if his mind was far away and she knew that he was listening to the earth. "They had this planned…they're hunting them down. This is no robbery -it is a massacre."

Celeborn knelt, placing two fingers to the earth beneath them, his eyes suddenly going vacant as the winter sky, the lines of his body drawing tense as a viper before it strikes, coiled muscle holding within it the potentiality of motion that was stilled as if in precursor to an attack. The ground seemed to shiver then all of a sudden, a deep tremor ran beneath Galadriel's feet, making the entire city tremble. "What are you doing?" She asked then, confused, frightened, for she had seen him use Sindarin magic long ago to show her something beautiful but now she had the sense that what she was about to see was far from lovely.

"Diverting their path, confusing them," he murmured, "leading them towards us instead." His eyes went clear as glass for a moment, the green disappearing to be replaced with white, his entire body seeming to curl briefly around that one spot where the tips of his fingers dug into the earth's flesh, and the caves seemed to swell and contract violently in the matter of an instant, the caverns themselves at his command. Then another tremor ran through the earth, long and deep, before a rumbling surrounded them as of rocks falling to the depths of the earth or deadly thunder in the distance, and a sudden gust of wind swept towards them, whipping at their hair and faces.

Celeborn pulled his fingers across the earth in a slow line, as if he were stroking some great beast that rose to his will and the earth responded. It seemed to Galadriel as if the world itself shifted, layers of rock that had lain still in perpetuity suddenly coming to wake, the soft dormancy of trees falling away like leaves to reveal some strange and primeval brutality. He was hunting, and this time with no bird of prey, but with all of this earth at his command, obedient to his behest.

_"Pagans, the lot of them, who worship false and foreign gods rather than the Valar. Heathens, barbarians, their power is simplistic, brutal, unrefined, nothing like our gifts that have been honed by the Valar,"_ Feanor's words echoed in her mind as her breath caught in her throat. It was not often that she saw Sindarin magic, and even less frequently that Celeborn performed it, and she remembered now why it frightened her, why Celeborn sometimes frightened her, why she loved him, why she could have him until the end of time and still never have enough: like it, he was wild, untamed, like the earth she would never be able to bend him to her will, to bind him to it; he was beyond her and yet buried in her more deeply than her own heart.

He rose, his entire body seeming to quiver with some energy, some slow beating dark light. He turned to her for a moment, watching her with eyes that seemed as distant as the far reaches of the universe, as close as the blood within her own veins. In awe she reached out, fitting her hand in his, feeling whatever it was flow through him and into her like a current, pulling irresistibly at her like a riptide tearing her out to sea. She nodded; she was ready.

"I'm yours," she said, opening herself entirely to him, feeling that power flow into her not as though she were his conduit nor he hers, but as if the sky had come down to kiss the earth and the earth risen to embrace the sky, stretching between them the brightness of lightening. She felt a great tremor course through her body, shaking her bones, blinding her for a moment in which it seemed that they were no longer two separate beings but one, bound by a blistering fusion of power that welled from two sources become united, splitting the heavens like a searing bolt of lightening that branched out above in veins and arteries of blinding light that illuminated the thousand caves, making them bright as day. The sky above Menegroth blossomed again, swelling as the entire universe was expanding, an array of stars spinning above in some mystical cataclysm.

It was in that sudden light that she saw the dwarves and the first had not even the span of a moment to raise his axe before Celeborn was upon him, swift, silent, deadly, his hands catching the sides of the dwarf's helm, twisting quickly, smoothly, the motion followed by the crack of the dwarf's neck. His movements were simple, economical, as he pivoted, tearing the helm from another dwarf's head before he lifted him bodily and caved his skull in against the wall.

Galadriel stood silent, still, breathing slowly. She had known it would come to this from the second she had set foot outside the houses of healing, had known that this was what they would have to do, that if they did not kill these dwarves they would themselves be killed and yet she could not help but remember in her heart that these were the children of Aulë.

By that time the dwarves had taken stock of their situation, their voices rising in alarmed shouts as they brought their axes up in defense, but Celeborn was quicker, far quicker, and he easily wrested an axe from a startled dwarf's hands, quickly decapitating its owner before, swinging it with blinding speed and a brutal elegance that cut down the dwarves like wheat in autumn before the thresher's scythe. They fell one after the other, no match for the Sindarin prince, and he did not stop until he had cut his way to the other end of the hall. Like a thundercloud he was, on the verge of a storm.

Trembling, Galadriel stepped forward over bodies, determined not to look down at the gristly work he had wrought, reaching the end of the hall at last, where Celeborn had fallen to his knees, his breath coming in short, quick, pained gasps, the axe standing upright before him, his arms crossed over the top of it, his forehead resting there at the juncture. Galadriel fell to her knees at his side, her hands still shaking, wishing that she could have protected him from this pain, feeling so completely useless, as if she should have foreseen this, as though she had failed him. His fingers were slick with blood that fell in slow droplets to the floor, his eyes closed, his face contorted in pain, his breath hissing between clenched teeth.

"I…I'm sorry," she murmured at last, her throat tight, her voice thick with the onset of tears.

"No," he whispered, reaching out, clasping her hand in his bloody one and it trembled with some strange energy. "No," he said. "Better that it was I who have never before turned blade against those uncorrupted by Bauglir. I would not have your fëa endure another such trial." He gasped as though speaking had been a test almost beyond enduring and Galadriel reached out for him, taking his hands in hers as the axe clattered to the floor.

"You remember," she said quietly and he raised his eyes to hers, dark eyes, haunted eyes, tormented eyes.

"I remember everything," he told her. "The moment you set your hand in mine I remembered, but I wish I had not." Galadriel felt her heart sink in her chest like a stone as those words.

"You're hurt," she said, seeking to break the silence, but Celeborn shook his head.

"I can go on," he said. "It is the old wounds that have opened, that pain me still with exertion, not new ones."

"Still…" Galadriel began.

"Help me," he interrupted her. "To the treasury, help me. These dwarves were only a small part of what company must have come. It may well be that there are yet others we shall encounter." He turned, his gaze piercing hers yet again, his eyes burning with fierce resolution. "If they reach the Silmaril before us," he gasped, stopping to draw ragged breaths before continuing, "it will plague Arda for all time, for they will never destroy it of their own volition. We must get to it first, Galadriel. We must destroy it."

She nodded, knowing he was right, and helped him to stand, her arm beneath his shoulders, supporting him as he leaned heavily on her. "We are very close now," she told him, and yet she felt some sense of nausea twisting in the pit of her stomach, for the way ahead was silent and empty and she had very much begun to doubt that they had arrived in time.

And yet, as they drew closer she saw that the place was not entirely abandoned, for there was still one who remained, fallen before the golden gates of the treasury, a figure crawling, pulling himself slowly and wearily across the floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. "Mablung," Celeborn gasped quietly, leaning heavily upon Galadriel as they staggered forward, confirming the dread that had already begun to creep at the edges of her mind.

"Celeborn…" Mablung gasped, his world swallowed by a fit of coughing and retching as he spit up crimson bile onto the floor, blood running from the corner of his mouth, over his chin. The warden extended his hand, trying once more to pull himself forward, his armor grating across the stone floor, the horrible squelching sound of blood and distended organs accompanying that grating noise. He stopped, breathing hard, facedown.

"Mablung," Celeborn gasped, collapsing at last at his friend's side, turning the warden over, cradling his head in his lap, and Mablung began to cough violently, blood pouring forth from his mouth, his long dark hair so carefully tended now matted with his own blood.

"Celeborn," Mablung reached up, desperately tangling his hands in the prince's silver hair, tears washing down his handsome, ruddy face as he pressed his forehead to Celeborn's, sobbing uncontrollably. "Forgive me…I beg you," he choked out. "I do not deserve it. It was my entire life, protecting the royal family of Doriath. I have failed, but forgive me nonetheless, I beg of you. Before I die I would have your forgiveness."

"There is no forgiveness to be given," Celeborn said, his own face awash in tears as he held Mablung in his arms, "where no wrong has been committed. My friend, you have ever served loyally and honorably. You are without wrong, without guilt, without shame."

"I have failed you," Mablung gasped, his voice weak and trembling now.

"Nay it was I who failed you," Celeborn replied. "Never should that cursed jewel have been allowed to enter this kingdom." Mablung drew a deep breath, laboring under the pain of it.

"There was nothing you could have done," he murmured, "nothing any of us could have…caught in this web that was never of our own design…" he closed his eyes, breathing deep, shuddering, and then his eyes shifted to Galadriel. "Why…" he gasped, "why did the Valar forsake us? Why…"

But Galadriel could do nothing more than shake her head, lips pulled tight in an effort to keep at bay the sobs that threatened to pour from her throat, for Mablung was indeed dying. That was obvious now, seeing him turned on his back. He had been disemboweled and his guts lay strewn along the path that he had crawled to them. Celeborn clasped Mablung's hand tightly, meeting Galadriel's eyes, and she knew; knew that this was a horrific, slow death meant to inflict pain, meant to torment the victim. One could live for many hours in such a way, but death was certain. "I do not know," she said in reply to Mablung and he closed his eyes for a moment.

"My wife…" he said, pausing as if to collect his strength, "tell her I love her. I will wait on the far shore…" Galadriel nodded vigorously, wrapping her arms around herself as if that would be some meager protection, but she had no idea of whom he was speaking, had no idea that he had married, and yet that seemed a poor thing to tell a dying man.

"I will," she promised instead. "I will." Mablung let out a deep breath, seeming satisfied, and then returned his gaze to Celeborn.

"That day…you almost bested me that day, the first day that Galadriel watched the fights. Do you remember?" He asked, his voice shallow, and Celeborn nodded. "That was the closest you ever got." The warden laughed, hissing in pain.

"I know," Celeborn replied, nodding, a faint smile on his lips, "I know. I have never fought so hard…but I…I wanted her to see."

"Ah…" Mablung said, a small smile of reminiscence blooming on his face, his voice a soft whisper. "I ought to have let you win just that once."

"No," Celeborn shook his head with a soft laugh. "I wouldn't want what I didn't deserve, even if it would have impressed her."

Mablung laughed. "But we rarely get what we deserve, do we?" He said. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them then and they both nodded.

"My knife," Mablung said, ending the silence, "… at my right side." And Celeborn reached down, pulling it from its sheath. It was near identical to his own with the long, wicked, curved blade, save that Mablung's was inscribed in Tengwar, something he had done in a fit of whimsy, fascinated by the foreignness of it, when Finrod and Galadriel had first arrived in Doriath. Foe of darkness: the characters gleamed in the light that fell from above.

With trembling, bloody hand, Mablung reached for Celeborn's hand, clasping it tight, his eyes full of tears. "Strike true," he gasped and Celeborn nodded. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then drove the blade home, straight through the leather chest plate, down deep into Mablung's heart, and the warden's copper eyes flashed for a moment, a spark of evanescent light, before some nearly imperceptible darkness stilled them and, with one last long sigh, the life fled him. His hand remained clasping Celeborn's for a moment longer and then slowly fell away.

Galadriel stood silent, frozen, unable to move, or think, or hardly even breathe, her mind torsed by what had just happened before her eyes, by the hypocritical disgust that wore at her heart like water against sand. Celeborn was bent over Mablung now, face pressed against his friend's still chest, weeping silently, and Galadriel stared, at a loss for words. She had been through enough that she ought to have known differently and yet, despite the charity of what Celeborn had just done, she felt as though all right, all justice had fled from the world and for the first time, perhaps, she at last understood, fully understood what it was that he had felt upon learning of the kinslaying.

He stood then, eyes dry now but face stained with the salt of tears and with blood, and turned to her, cradling her cheek in his right hand as his eyes met hers, staring into the deep of her, watching the movements of her soul. His lips parted for a moment, as if he meant to speak, but he closed them again and was silent before at last he found the words. "Do not look to me for your salvation," he whispered at last, "for I cannot give it." He let his hand fall to his side, looked at her for a moment longer and then, still clutching the knife in his hand, turned and slowly walked away.

*****

"Issue the order for her arrest. Bring her to me. Bring her here," Celeborn gasped, wheezing with pain as the wardens helped him to a chair. He shook off their friendly hands, his shoulders hunched and quivering with anger. "I can manage on my own," he spat, collapsing at last to the seat, still breathing hard. He could feel Galadriel's familiar presence at his side and turned slightly to see her take her place behind him. He wanted to send her away if only because he did not wish for her to see this.

"She is already here, Your Majesty," one of the guards murmured and they turned to see that Venessiel stood in the doorway. She looked as though she had not slept in weeks, her normally lush hair matted, tangled, thick with grease, her face pale with dark circles beneath her eyes. The skin of her hands was raw and red, as if she has scrubbed them over and over countless times in an effort to remove some unseen yet indelible stain.

She approached slowly, eyes on the floor, and bowed low at Celeborn's feet. It was a while before she rose and, when she did, she did so slowly, as if a great weariness sat within her bones. Celeborn, on the other hand, felt possessed by a near manic energy that even Galadriel's touch as she lay her hand upon his shoulder could not ease. He could feel wrath beating through him like a pulse as if it wished to tear free of his body, a force of its own.

Venessiel laid a hand on her pregnant stomach, seeming afraid to begin, her mouth opening and then closing again like a fish. "There is something I must tell…" she started at last, her voice weak and faded, still finding herself unable to raise her eyes from the floor.

"Do you think I have not already surmised for myself what you have done?" Celeborn seethed, his voice thick with anger and, beneath that, hatred. The wardens shifted nervously and Venessiel glanced about furtively. It would have been impossible for Celeborn to seek to find any mercy within his heart in this moment and so he did not search for it. "Tell us now the full tale," he said, "and I pray you be quick about it, for there is none whose presence is now more loathsome to me than yours."

It still took her a moment to begin but at, last, swallowing hard, she said, "Thingol had wanted the dwarves to come here. He wanted to see their wares, was considering purchasing them, re-outfitting the army after the Battle of Beleriand, but they would not come without some guarantee that we would indeed buy what they made. They wanted 10,000 in silver promised to be paid upon the completion of the armor that I had told them we would order. We had the money. I drew up the contract. I showed it to them. They came. I withdrew the funds," she said.

"All I had left to do was to get the King's signature. That was when he began to have doubts…or perhaps he had never been as serious about it as I had thought. He said that first we should observe the quality of their craft before making any contract. I did not tell him I had already drawn it up. I did not tell him that I had shown it to them. After all, he hadn't signed it. It was not yet valid. I…I meant to put it away in case he changed his mind." She paused as if she were almost unable to continue.

"I went to return the money to the treasury. But…looking at all of it there…I…I couldn't. It was so much money, 10,000 silver. I thought of what I could do with that much silver…I…I knew that if I invested it properly the return would be monumental. I thought that I could pay you back for what I had done to you, that I could return all of it. And so I…I invested it in Nargothrond. I thought that Felagund was my lucky break. But I needed to cover my tracks and so I forged Thingol's signature on the contract with the dwarves. His signature crossed my desk a thousand times a day, I was familiar enough with it to be able to do it. No one would question why that money had been withdrawn."

"Then I drew up the investment papers for Nargothrond. I forged those as well. I thought that all the money would come back and more, double, triple. There would be enough to pay the dwarves if Thingol did decide to purchase from them. There would be enough to pay you back with interest and you would love me again. I was sure of it."

"I was nearly found out once," she said, "when you began to push the king to make good on the contract with the dwarves before Nargothrond was yet built. Of course, he did not know that the contract had ever existed but, if he had agreed to buy their wares then he would have discovered that the money was gone. He would have known what I had done, he would have found all of the forged papers. The forgeries were good enough to trick you but he would have known that he had never signed them. But you saved me, though you did not know it. You pushed him too hard, so hard that his mind was completely turned against the idea of buying anything from them and their protests fell his deaf ears. He did not know there had ever been a contract and he dismissed their insistence as typical dwarven greed, as I had thought he would. I was saved. Everything after that was going according to my plan." She paused, hands trembling as she clutched them tightly together, her voice having grown weak.

"But Galadriel ruined everything," she started again. "You fell in love with her and you were never supposed to fall in love with her. Oh, I knew she was beautiful, and clever, and charming…but I never thought you, you of all people, would fall for a Noldo. After they first returned to Middle Earth, before she and her brothers came to Menegroth, you and Beleg used to laugh at them, to make fun of the ludicrous stories you would hear about the Noldor. I at least thought that she would never fall in love with you, for she was so prideful and I thought she would deem it below herself to consort with a Sinda. But she did and it was for love of you that she told Thingol of the kinslaying."

"And that…that ruined me and all my plans along with me, for our ties with Nargothrond were severed completely and the money was gone, lost, I would never get it back. But then it seemed as if the hand of fate had saved me yet again, for the dwarves left and I knew that what I had done would go unnoticed, that I could hide it away and no one would ever be the wiser for it. Yes, I had lost you, and yes, I had lost the money, but at least no one would ever know."

"So I fixed the books and I forgot about things for a while. I forgot about you. I was happy, even. I found that I could love again and I fell in love with Oropher, married him. But then she came back. Oh and I knew why you loved her, even though she was a kinslayer, even though she could be maddening, there was something about her that was so good, so right, so unblemished. She had that determination, that resilience, that strength. Sometimes I thought she was more yourself than you were. I almost loved her myself. How could anyone resist her?"

"And she intended to renew our alliance with Nargothrond. I saw my salvation in her. It didn't matter that I had lost you. I didn't want you anymore. I was happy and in love with Oropher. But I still thought that I could undo the wrong that I had done, that if she could do it, if she could succeed in setting things right between Finrod and Thingol that my investment would be returned from Nargothrond and that I could put the money back in the treasury, I could return what I had stolen from you. No one would ever know."

"So I became determined to help her in whatever way I could. But it seemed that she hardly needed my aid, for she rose from the ashes of her own accord. I was near sick with worry when she refused my help and so I took her friend into my service so that I could gather information on her, manipulate her even, if things came to that. But it was not necessary. She managed things on her own and our friendship with Nargothrond was renewed. The money came back, all of it and more and was deposited into my account. Finrod was none the wiser. To him the accounts were just mere numbers and he had no idea which ones belonged to me and which belonged to the king. Felagund had become a wealthy man and I became a wealthy woman in return."

"I returned to Doriath what was Doriath's. I returned the money I had taken from you to your account slowly, over the course of years so that you would not notice. The only thing I could not do was give to the dwarves the money that I had told them Thingol promised. They would have questioned Thingol and I would have been found out. But I did not think it mattered. I did not expect that we would ever deal with them again. Of course, I was worried when Galadriel returned, bringing the coins with her, for I was more certain than anyone then that the dwarves of Nogrod had colluded with Morgoth and sought to take their revenge upon Doriath. But, we had Melian to protect us and I knew they could never breach the girdle. And, I knew that the public was of the opinion that it was a mere coincidence. After all, dwarves are killed all the time by orcs and have their money stolen. It was nothing unusual; there was no reason for anyone to suspect that it had anything to do with what I'd done…except for Galadriel's visions…but no one believed them anyway, even her own brothers did not take them seriously."

"The dwarves could not touch us. Thingol had been so furious with them that I was certain he would never invite them to Menegroth again. Everything was right with the world. I had escaped unscathed and, more than that, I had won my bet and won big. Still, I vowed that I would never do such a thing again. I had a husband to think of and I wanted to have a child."

"But then there was the matter of that contract. I had had to keep it around you see, to excuse myself of any liability if you asked about it again. It would have been suspicious if I had lost it. For you had asked me once already and, in a moment of confusion, of surprise, I had showed it to you when I ought not to have done so. And so I had kept it, though I would rather have destroyed it, for I knew that if you asked me for it and I was unable to produce it you would check the accounts and then you would know what I had done. Once I had paid all of the money back I knew that I could safely destroy it, that even if you asked to see it and I could not produce it, you would never be able to prove anything."

"But Bainwen, whom I had taken into my service in an effort to gather information about Galadriel, betrayed me. The contract was missing, though I was certain where I had hidden it. I began to suspect that she might have taken it, that perhaps she had seen me with it when I thought I was unobserved. I questioned her harshly and at last she confessed to stealing it and told me that she had already hidden it in your chambers to find."

"It was you," Celeborn heard Galadriel's voice, cold and hard, at his side and Venessiel nodded.

"I broke in in an attempt to retrieve it," she said. "It was I who sent the note to Celeborn so that he would be far from your rooms, but I did not expect you to return so soon. I was sick with worry, thinking that I had not found it but that the guards would discover it when they searched your chambers that night. Yet they did not…and I began to suspect that Bainwen had lied to me, that she had never hidden it in your rooms as she had said."

"My attempts to coax the truth from her proved fruitless and I only knew I was correct when she was caught burglarizing your rooms. I knew she had gone to hide the contract there and I was furious with her. With the heavy guard that had been set upon your rooms after I had first broken in, I knew it was beyond my reach, that I could never hope to retrieve it. Fortunately for Bainwen, but unfortunately for me, she had the presence of mind to disguise the entire thing as a robbery, meaning that she would not be returned to my custody, where I would be able to control what she said and to whom, but that she would instead be jailed and taken for trial before the king. I certainly could not interrogate her in prison but I knew with certainty that if she were brought before Thingol she would tell him what she had discovered and so I forged just one thing more: an order transferring her to a prison colony on the Isle of Balar."

"Is that where she is?" Galadriel asked, her voice thick with worry and burgeoning anger.

"It was where she was supposed to have gone," Venessiel replied quietly, "though as they were attacked en route I cannot say."

"If she is dead then may her death be upon your head, and those of all who have died as a result of your greed," Galadriel spat, but Celeborn's hand on her own quieted her. Venessiel reached up to wipe away tears that sat heavy in her eyes and had begun to make their way down her face.

"Continue," Celeborn ordered, his voice as cold as sharpened steel and, presently, she did.

"But Thingol's wrath, which had heretofore played in my favor, suddenly turned against me, for because of it he set Beren in pursuit of the Silmaril. Still, I thought I was safe. I never thought he would actually succeed. But he did. It was then that I knew that doom was upon me. Our craftsmen had not the skill to set that jewel, I knew it, and what was more, Thingol wanted it set in the Nauglamir. He called the dwarves of Nogrod back to Menegroth. I knew that they had not forgotten. I thought at worst they would reveal my lies. But I never imagined that they had planned Thingol's murder." She fell into silence and at last Celeborn spoke.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense?" He asked.

"No," Venessiel said, raising her eyes to his and he could well see the horror and pain written in them, but in the face of it he felt nothing resembling compassion for her. He could not even muster the anger that Galadriel had, but only a strange and hollow emptiness sat heavy in his heart like a stone. "I never intended for any of this to happen," Venessiel said, her voice shaking. "Certainly I never wanted it. But what I have done is inexcusable and…and…" harsh sobs wracked her body. "I ask that you punish me as you see fit, for I assure you that there is no one alive who despises me more than I already despise myself."

Celeborn was silent for a while, feeling the bite of Galadriel's fingers digging into his shoulder, hardly knowing what to think, unable to think. "Did Oropher know of this?" He asked at last and Venessiel shook her head violently.

"He is entirely innocent," she said. "I swear it. He knew nothing!"

"Then I will not force him to endure your fate," Celeborn said, his heart like a leaden weight in his chest as he pronounced his judgment. "It is only for the sake of the child you bear that I will not exile you from this kingdom today," he told her. "But once your child is born you shall be stripped of your possessions, your head shall be shorn, and you shall cast out to wandering. Your children shall be given into the custody of their father for they are of the royal family of Doriath. Whether or not Oropher wishes to follow you into exile shall be his own choice to make, but I would not expect mercy from him if I were you, given what you have done. A ban shall be set upon you so that you may never return to this kingdom, nor shall you find welcome with Círdan and his people. You had best pray that the green elves find some mercy in their hearts for you. Death is too kind a fate for one such as yourself but maybe it will find you in time and long may you dwell in Mandos's halls."

At his words Venessiel sank to her knees, uttering a terrible cry as tears streamed down her face, but the guards took her by the arms at Celeborn's behest and raised her to her feet. "See that she is comfortable until the child is born," he said. "After that, cast her out. I wish neither to see nor speak of her again." With that he stood, pushing Galadriel's hand from where it lay on his arm, and strode from the chamber.

His footsteps were quick at first, carrying him through winding, labyrinthine corridors that all ended in darkness. He had no purpose other than that he wished to be away from here, from this, from everything, and he did not know where his feet were leading him. It was all too much and the only thing he wanted now was to forget that any of this had happened, to go back to how things had been when he had remembered nothing, when it had all seemed so simple. But no…he wanted to go back further than that.

His feet had carried him to Thingol's great hall and, looking up, he found himself at the foot of the throne. That place, which had once been so marvelous, so full of laughter and life, was now silent, deserted, more like a tomb than anything. His eyes tracking a path across the ceiling that had by now gone completely dark once more and he knew that never again would he see the stars shine there, moving in perfect congruence as if guided by some silent music that bound the world in spheres of harmony.

It was as if all had returned to how it has been long ago beneath a darkening sky, before the appearance of the sun and the moon, before Menegroth, when they had lived every day of their lives in nameless dread of foul and unseen things that would spirit them away to their deaths or worse. Doriath had been a bastion of strength, of safety, a lone outpost against the darkness, sole fortress against the night of Morgoth's maleficence. And now…now it was no more.

He stepped forward, over the great incarnadine stains of blood that marked the places where his people had fallen, that scarred the earth like open wounds. In the horrifying aftermath of the slaughter, for that is what it had been, a slaughter, not a battle, most of the bodies had been cleared away by grief stricken friends and relatives, but the blood remained, running through the creeks and streams that flowed throughout the city. It was strange, he thought, that a place so lived in could have in the matter of a few hours been turned into something more akin to an antique ruin, a crypt.

The leaves of emerald and green glass, veined with silver and gold, had been torn from the trees, an unnatural harvest, and lay scattered now upon the ground. His feet crunched over them as he stepped forward and heavily seated himself upon the throne. Autumn had come to Doriath but already the scent of winter was in the air, bitter and cold. He wanted to go back, back to the way that things had been, to feel safe, and loved, and warm again, but those days, he knew, were long gone, vestiges of an ancient memory that would no longer bear life, gone just as surely as the life had fled this hall.

Never would he forget the way that the streams had once bubbled here with crystalline waters and brightly-colored ornamental fish, nor the vibrance of the trees with the verdant canopies that had towered higher than even he could climb, or the soft spotted fawns and doe-eyed rabbits that had wandered here and there in peace and happiness. All that was left now was the hollow corpse of a city in which the song of nightingales had been extinguished like the flame of a solitary candle.

But, more than this, he would never be able to erase from his mind the cries of his people as they had fallen in their own home, the sight of their bodies grown cold and still, their eyes staring up accusatorily at him as if to say 'you were supposed to protect us,' and most of all, he was haunted by the hollow look in Galathil's eyes as he held Inwen's still and pallid corpse. She had died as she had lived, seeking to diminish the pain of others, to aid them in their hour of need, to heal even as the world around her was choked in violence. Never had he felt more powerless than in that moment when he realized that there was nothing he could say or do that would even in the smallest way relieve his brother of the immense burden of pain that had been so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

Nor was there anything or anyone who could have healed him of his own pain, of the insurmountable weight that he felt settle about his heart, coil about it, constricting the life out of it. He wished that he could find his anger, for that would have provided a refuge, albeit one that would pass all too quickly. Instead he felt enveloped in some strange feeling, something for which he had no name - but that consumed his entire body in a deep aching the likes of which he had never known before, consumed him until he felt empty. And even knowing this, he knew that he must go on, that for him there could be no respite, not peace, no time for grieving, but it seemed an impossible challenge and his mind refused to turn to it, preferring instead to cower in the shadows.

Lowering his head into his hands he wept, not only for this city, and this kingdom, and those who had been killed, but for the dreams that could not now be and were forever lost, for the advent of a world in which any semblance of safety was a thing of the past, a time in which children would be thrust into adulthood before they were prepared for it, just as he had been.

The sound of quiet, slow footsteps interrupted him and he reached up, quickly wiping away the tears, ashamed that he had been seen in such a state. Kings, he knew, could not afford such luxuries. If a kingdom was a body then her king was the heart and if the heart does not keep pumping then the body will perish. He raised his eyes slowly to find Galadriel standing at he base of the dais, a faintly flickering lantern held in her hand.

She had come to reprimand him, to rebuke him for the things he had said before about wanting to forget, about how he could not give her the salvation that he had presumed she expected of him, but now she saw that what he had said was not a condemnation of her, but of himself. Quietly, she stooped and set the lantern on the ground where its light cast eerie shadows about the darkened hall.

Celeborn glanced towards her and then looked away before voicing his deepest fear to the silence. "I failed them." The words hung heavy in the dark hall and Galadriel felt her heart aching as she knew that nothing she could do or say would ever soothe the pain in his soul nor persuade him otherwise.

She stepped slowly forward, sinking to sit at his feet, pulling her knees up to her chest as if she were a child, wrapping her arms around them as she leaned her head against his knee. "What do we do now?" She asked simply, action the one thing she was certain could draw Celeborn's mind from his sorrow, even if his heart could not yet follow.

"Evacuate the city," he said softly. "Our numbers are too few now, our forces too diminished. We could certainly never withstand another assault of that magnitude, but even an attack by a weaker force than the dwarves brought could easily decimate us. There is only one way in or out of the city, a method of protection while the girdle was in place, but without it, it proves a death trap.

"Where will we go?" She asked.

"South first," he said, "to regroup with Círdan's people and to gather to us those of our people who live in the forests and towns of Doriath rather than here in the capital, for they shall be in grave danger as well. Were we to go straight to the mountains it might prove too dangerous, for the dwarves dwell in that region and we would be vulnerable to Bauglir's foul beasts. With greater numbers our chances of surviving the journey will increase."

"But will Círdan join us?" Galadriel asked and he nodded.

"The settlements on the Isle of Balar and at the mouths of the Sirion are only temporary. He knows that he cannot stay there forever. He is only trying to give his people a chance to rest and recover before they too must certainly move eastward. Perhaps he will be able to accomplish this sooner if we join him." His words were quick, decisive, his fierce analytical mind at work and that provided Galadriel some small measure of relief, for so long as he felt he had a purpose, she did not believe he would let his despair consume him.

"Then let it be as you have said," she told him, "and let us lose not a moment in delay, for my heart tells me that the sooner we are away the better. This place is as a home to us no longer but if we tarry I fear it shall become our tomb."

*****

With the sun and moon extinguished from the vaulted ceilings above, Celeborn knew not whether it was night or day when he awoke. Since his memories had returned, it still felt strange to him in a way to sleep at Galadriel's side, nearly as though he lay beside a stranger whom he knew better than anyone else. It had not been so easy for him to try to return to how things had been and the reestablishment of intimacy was proving to require a great deal of time. It rather felt as though he had not seen her in a very long while and, though he remembered her well, and loved her more dearly than his own fëa, it was taking them time to become reacquainted with one another.

He rolled over in the dark, draping an arm over her warm, soft body, taking comfort in the gentle, slow, rise and fall of her breathing, burying his head in her lush golden hair filled with the light of Aman. He closed his eyes, the light from her hair a warm glow against his eyelids, and wondered what it must have been like to know a time without this suffering. As long as he had been alive, even from his first memories as a child, the threat of violence and death had been ever-present. In a way he envied her, envied her compassion, the way that she could bring herself to trust so fully, to give her heart so freely, so entirely to others, to forgive completely.

And I… he thought, there is always part of myself hidden in reserve, kept secret, always part of me that is vigilant, untrusting…even of those I love best. His own words had haunted him for weeks after, haunted him still, do not look to me for your salvation. He had seen the confusion flit across her eyes in that moment, had wondered at himself that when he ought to have comforted her he had only admonished her coldly, warned her that he would never be able to give her everything she deserved. And she, in her ever constant compassion, had not rebuked him, had understood, had comforted him even.

Every one of the Sindar knew that a wolf, no matter how tame it became, would always be a wolf, would always be a wild animal at heart and he wondered if they weren't the same, if it might be the case that no matter how much he loved her, there was always the chance that he would tear her heart out and devour it. Perhaps, after all, that was what the Noldor had meant when they called them 'dark elves,' that they could never completely be trusted because they could never completely trust. Perhaps this earth had marred them after all, perhaps it had taken from them something that they could never get back.

She deserves better, he thought, a thought he would never dare voice to her. She had made her choice, as he knew, as she had said herself, and he would not challenge her judgment nor her free will. If it was him that she wanted then he would give her himself as best he was able; he only wished he could give her more. He drew a deep shuddering breath, his hands trembling as he held her close within the circle of his arms, his tears falling silently, ensnared in her hair like drops of dew had once upon a time been caught upon the golden glory of Laurelin's light.

*****

Thanks for reading! :) You guys are the best!

 **Character profile:** Oropher and Venessiel

I originally did not write Oropher into this story since he isn't in the Silmarillion at all and he seemed really superfluous to me since he is such a minor character even in Unfinished Tales, but after the Hobbit movies started to come out I figured I would get slaughtered if I didn't put him in the story and, as it turns out, I am really glad that I put him in.

He has turned out to be a really nice foil for Celeborn. They're very different elves with very different opinions and agendas. They're both good people at heart, just very different, and I wanted to kind of show that dichotomy in the story: just because you don't get along with someone doesn't mean that they're a bad person. We'll be seeing a lot more of Oropher in the sequel that will enhance this relationship even more.

Essentially, Celeborn tends to have a much more moderate political agenda than Oropher has and their motivations are very different. Celeborn does things typically because he wants them done right or he thinks they should be done a certain way but Oropher tends to have a little bit more of a self-serving agenda, which isn't always a bad thing. Oropher is in this story, and in canon as well, extremely politically conservative and very isolationistic. The fact that he wants nothing at all to do with the Noldor while Celeborn marries a Noldo obviously creates friction between them in Tolkien's books and in this story. But, I think Oropher's point is worth considering: perhaps if Doriath had never gotten involved with the Noldor things might have gone better.

As for Oropher personally, I've cast him as the kind of person who wants to be well-liked. The approval of others is very important to him and he places a lot of emphasis on the importance of status. As the youngest, and therefore the most junior of the princes, he really struggles with this personally because he is very ambitious but he doesn't have the sort of position in the court that he wants. Instead of taking his own stand, however, he tends to attach himself to influential people like Saeros in a bid to rise to the top.

Although he loves Venessiel very much and they do have a very loving marriage, like any marriage they have issues. One of those issues is that Venessiel is the kind of wife Oropher thinks he should have: pretty, smart, powerful, wealthy. She's kind of a puzzle piece that he thinks he needs in his bid to rise through the ranks of Thingol's court. This is why he gets frustrated with her whenever he perceives that she isn't following his plan. In his mind, they're in this together and he can't understand why she sometimes does things that, in his eyes, thwart his plan. He'll really grow and evolve on all these issues in the sequel.

Venessiel, for all of her intelligence and her math smarts, is chiefly governed by her heart and she even takes this to hedonistic extremes at times, as with her gambling problem. She has very poor impulse control and very poor control over her emotions, which is one reason that her break up with Celeborn was so difficult for her and why she never really got completely over it. She also has a very strong need to 'make things right,' which is why, even though Celeborn didn't care whether she paid him back or not, for her this was necessary. Whether she is aware of it or not, her paying Celeborn back is more about making herself feel ok and fixing what she did, than actually making things right between her and Celeborn. Celeborn is probably much more aware of that than she is. No matter how daft he might be about his own emotions, he is often keenly perceptive of those of other people.

Venessiel definitely still has feelings for him and, even though she loves Oropher and is happy that she is married to him, I think sometimes in life you have feelings for someone that never really go away so that is what she is going through. And, again, I think her love for Celeborn actually has more to do with her own feelings of unworthiness than with him. It's more about her obsessing over what she sees as a mistake in her past that she can't fix.

And, speaking of her past, I think a big reason that she fell into gambling is because she was brought up in a lower class family, as is alluded to in the story, and eventually rises to a really high position at court. She has a lot of ambition, which is what I think really ties her and Oropher together, but she also has this fear of losing everything that she has gained, which makes her do really irrational things sometimes since she will always act in the interest of self-preservation, even at the expense of the people she loves.


	38. The Blood Dimmed Tide

  
**The Blood Dimmed Tide**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 38th Chapter

*****

"To realize that all your life—you know,  
all your love, all your hate, all your memory, all your pain—  
it was all the same thing.  
It was all the same dream.  
A dream that you had inside a locked room.  
A dream about being a person.  
And like a lot of dreams there's a monster at the end of it."

_\- Rust Cole, True Detective_

*****

It was with a tinge of shame that Galadriel had secretly filled the shallow silver bowl with water from a fountain, glancing about furtively as she carried it back with her, and it was only when she at last returned to their chambers and placed it on the table before her that she released the breath she had been unknowingly holding. In the months following the slaughter, efforts to clean the streams and fountains of Menegroth that provided the capital with water had proven an arduous task, especially considering how few now remained to do it; water had thus become a scarce resource, too precious to waste, and she knew that Celeborn would consider this wasteful.

Still…she had to know, felt so deeply compelled and, more than that, she felt that if there was anything she missed…any missing piece of this macabre puzzle that she had failed to see, she would never be able to forgive herself. Already the guilt sat heavy in her heart, guilt that she had realized things too late, that Thingol had perhaps been drawing his dying breaths when at last everything had fallen into place in her mind. For a century she had seen that vision, and for a century its meaning had evaded her…until it had been too late.

It was ancient magic, primitive in a way, yet difficult to achieve and powerful beyond reckoning, some would say pagan, a defiance of the Valar. The water had stilled in the bowl, crystal clear, and her own reflection looked back at her. When she had stood beneath the Mindon in Tirion how could even she, gifted with prescience, have imagined that all of this would come to pass? Even Melian had been unable to see it. She drew a deep shuddering breath and then released it, clasping her hands in her lap. _How many more times, she wondered, will I lose my home?_

Valinor she had left by choice, but this time it felt all the more bitter because Doriath was the home she had chosen, the home she had fought for, the one that she herself had helped to build. Now it was all slipping away like sand in an hourglass and she was powerless to stop it - the same way she had been powerless against Fëanor’s prying hands and conniving words, the same way she had been powerless to defend her mother’s kin on the docks of Alqualondë. 

Celeborn was fighting a war he could not win, the futility of it dragging him down, drowning him, and she felt powerless to help him even as she felt powerless to help herself, hiding away the emotions that tore at her, threatening to rip her open. She could not afford to cave, not now, not when he needed her the most. But, such thoughts were certainly not going to make this any easier. She turned her eyes towards the shallow bowl of water again and, again, took a deep breath. She had watched Melian do this many a time. _You’re not ready yet,_ the queen had laughed with a shake of her raven head. _This is powerful, too powerful; it will drain you of your strength._

 _And do my visions not do the same?_ She had asked, ever impatient. It had never been in her to watch and learn.

 _Not like this,_ Melian had said, her eyes sparkling. _This is different. The earth does not know you well enough yet and so she will not reveal her secrets to you. You must wait until the proper time._

 _And when will I know it is the proper time?_ She had pushed.

 _When I tell you that it is,_ Melian had replied, ever cryptic.

But Melian was gone now and she had taken that knowledge with her. And yet she had felt it that night of the slaughter, when she had set her hand in Celeborn’s. She had felt something change in that instant, as if she could feel the heart of the earth beating within her own, as if the soil and water now knew her scent. She had asked Celeborn about it one evening and he had stared at her, puzzled, before she realized that of course this earth had been in his blood since birth. He knew nothing other than that; for him that was the way it has always been.

 _I’m not ready,_ she thought with grave uncertainty as she gazed upon the shallow silver dish, and yet the thought of _not_ knowing would drive her mad if she did not dare to try this. 

_Why this way?_ She had asked Melian and the queen had only given her a bemused smile, as if there was some great secret she was missing out on.

 _The water will temper your strength, channel the foresight; you will not have to expend as much energy and the visions will be more distinct, clearer._ The queen had replied after a pause.

 _Then why not teach me now?_ She had pushed once more. _Wouldn’t it be better that way?_

This time Melian’s reply had come swiftly, with nary a glimmer of doubt. _Are you prepared for what you might see, even if it is the deaths of those you love?_ That had silenced her effectively and, timidly, reprimanded, she had folded her hands in her lap and never asked again. 

Now her hands shook as she folded them in her lap. “Am I ready?” She asked the silence, her voice barely a whisper, and silence was her reply, the water still and quiet. Melian wasn’t coming back. There would be no miracle in this darkest hour, no salvation from what doom awaited them. She felt that darkness settle heavily upon her heart like a stone, crushing her beneath its weight. She had known that the water would not reflect Melian’s face and yet there had been some wild and frail hope beating in her heart that it would. But all that she saw reflected back at her was her own face: a woman full grown and yet she felt as if she were no more than a child. What good was her power if she had not the strength to protect what she loved, as Melian had? She needed something, _something, anything,_ some hope that it was not all over, that there was still a chance, a chance for hope, for happiness, that not everything would end in the ruin that Mandos had foreseen.

She took a deep shuddering breath, blinking away tears, and then lowered her head, breathing softly across the surface, watching as thin clouds of white smoke began to rise, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as she gazed into the water. The surface shivered. _Please_ , she thought, begging silently for the water to show her what would happen, to reveal whether they could escape, if there was some way out. _Please_ … the surface rippled again and then she felt as if she were floating facedown in a lake, the room having faded away completely.

She could feel her heart thundering, pounding a mad staccato in her chest. All was black and then a pair of eyes opened before her - her own eyes, and she stared back at herself. All flashed black again and then she was merely sitting at the table, clutching its edges with white-knuckled fingers, smoke still rising slowly from the shallow silver dish, trembling in the wake of her abject failure.

“I hope you’re planning on doing something useful with that water,” Celeborn’s voice, low and cold with a rumble of latent anger in its depths, met her ears as she heard him enter, passing behind where she sat without another word or even a glance, stripping off his leather armor with quick, angry motions as he disappeared into the next room. 

Galadriel sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe out of fear that her entire world would shatter to pieces about her, trying to remind herself that she must not give in to it, that she must stay calm for his sake, that now was the moment when he needed more than ever for her to be the strong one. But she couldn’t. How could she, when even her own foresight refused to heed her will? How could she when the doom of Mandos was closing about their necks like a noose?

With a scream of futile rage she took up the silver basin and flung it, the water arching through the air in a clear and graceful stream before she heard the basin clatter and echo against the wall as it fell to the floor, as she fell to her knees, shaking and sobbing as if the tears couldn’t come fast enough, drawing great shuddering breaths that wracked her entire body. “Galadriel!” She heard him cry, his voice thick with anxiety, then running footsteps and she saw his boots appear before her.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, her chest tight as if she could not draw enough air, and she raised her eyes to see him standing before her, his face oddly expressionless, his eyes blank and unfocused, almost as if he were looking through her to the other side at something she could not see. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see it,” she stammered between great gasps of air. “I’m sorry I was too late. I’m sorry for the curse I’ve brought down on you. I’m sorry I can’t fill Melian’s place.” The tears flowed freely from her eyes and, shaking, she raised a trembling hand to wipe them away.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Celeborn murmured into his hair, sinking to the floor and gathering her into his arms. “It isn’t your fault. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” Galadriel could feel him trembling as he held her, could feel the wetness of his tears in her hair, and for some reason she found comfort in knowing that even in fear she was not alone.

*****

Some days it seemed that anger was the only thing that sustained him: pulsing through him hot as fire, throbbing deep in his veins, it fueled him over the long and lonely months where the people prepared for the journey. Despite the fact that their population had been horribly depleted, all of Menegroth’s citizens were working as hard as possible to prepare for the great migration. The kitchens worked both night and day to prepare enough food to sustain the people on the exodus while the forges worked tirelessly to craft armor for the surviving soldiers and wardens.

“No sign of movement on the borders so far, Your Royal Highness,” Glindor, Celeborn’s lieutenant, said as they bent over a large table spread with maps in the center of the great hall. “I think it is safe to say that Beren, the Ents, and the Green Elves successfully routed the dwarves. Indeed, Naugladir himself was slain. They will almost certainly not return.”

“Still no word from Beren and Lúthien?” Celeborn asked, his mind distracted as, with his index finger, he traced the line of the Sirion to its mouth.

“No Sir,” Glindor said, “nothing, save that Lúthien wears the Silmaril.”

Celeborn curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his knuckles down into the table. “She should know better than to invite their wrath,” he murmured.

“Sir?” Glindor asked, not having heard him, but Celeborn shook his head.

“We must away from here as soon as possible,” he said, looking up at the hall filled with people, the noisy hubbub of conversation and of people moving here and there reaching his ears. It seemed the whole city had come to dwell here in the great hall. Many, he suspected, could not bear to return to the homes where their loved ones had perished. He glanced over towards a far corner where Galadriel sat with many of the women, their fingers nimbly flying over the strings of their looms, preparing clothes for the journey. 

His eyes met hers for a moment as he looked up and he saw her visibly stiffen, saw her purse her lips and the strange emotions flit through her eyes. Things had not been the same between them since the dwarves had come…no, longer than that…since the failed wedding. Though in sleep they lay side by side, mere inches between them, their bed had become cold and passionless; an inch could be a mile depending upon the map used to read it, and their hearts were many leagues apart. Yet it was not for lack of love that it was so. In fact, he rather suspected it was the depth of the love they felt for each other that had created this strange distance between them, the growing fear of what doom might be coming upon them and the futility of their efforts to prevent it. He felt his heart cry out, reaching for hers along that invisible thread that connected them, but he quieted it quickly, not wishing her to hear it and be pained.

He looked back down at the map. The irony was not lost on him that he felt so comfortable speaking his fears and concerns to Glindor and so uncomfortable talking to his own betrothed about them. _Thingol has not invested thousands of years of love and affection into him the way he did with you,_ Galadriel’s words of many years ago rang in his mind and he pushed them away, clearing his mind of thoughts before opening his eyes again. He did not know when he had closed them. The lines of the map stared up at him, black and stark against the white of the parchment. The plains, the forests, the mountains all looked so small from here and yet he knew what a difficult journey awaited them, the vast stretches of wilderness they would have to traverse with children and wagons in tow, the orcs, and wolves, and foul beasts that roamed those lands.

“Sir?” He must have been quiet for some time because Glindor seemed nervous.

“How much longer until we are ready to leave?” He asked quietly. The room seemed to have grown louder and he had to listen hard to hear Glindor’s answer, though he stood at his side.

“Within a month,” Glindor replied. “All is nearly ready.”

“Good,” Celeborn said. “It is better we do not travel in the winter. It would be slow going through the snow. But we shall have to find a way to cross the rivers.”

“And where, exactly, do you think you will be going?” An unfamiliar voice rang out. 

Celeborn stiffened, feeling a chill run down his spine, and straightened, turning to find standing before him a tall, dark-haired elf. He was young still, thin, yet unable to fill out the his tall frame, and the fine and regal clothes he wore seemed somewhat out of place on such a young elf, as did the aura of power he had attempted to project with his question, as if he wore a heavy mantle that he was not used to bearing.

“Dior,” Celeborn said, surprised, for it was impossible that he should be anyone else. The memory of Thingol and Melian, of Beren and Lúthien was present in the handsome lines of his face, the raven black of his long straight hair, the shining blue of his eyes. Celeborn’s eyes drifted to the silver-haired woman who stood at Dior’s side, a newborn baby with hair of gray so deep it was nearly black in her arms and two dark-haired twin boys hiding behind her skirts. It had been many years since last he had seen Nimloth.

“Prince Celeborn, I presume,” Dior said, but his eyes held none of Beren’s kindness, nor any of Thingol’s humor.

“I am, at your service,” Celeborn replied, clasping his hands before him as he surveyed the train of courtiers that Dior and Nimloth had brought with them.

“You would do well to address me as is proper,” Dior said brusquely, “and speaking of service. I have come to assume my grandfather’s throne. Doriath thanks you for your services as Prince Regent but they will no longer be necessary.”

“Your Majesty,” Celeborn said with a small bow of acknowledgment, tight lipped, feeling very much as though he would like to tell Dior what he really thought of him. Galathil’s warning of several years ago did indeed prove apt and, though he had only known Thingol’s heir but a few moments, he found that he did not like him at all. His eyes met Nimloth’s but she only looked away, feigning interest in her baby. 

He felt a delicate hand slip into his, Galadriel’s, and turned to look at her, surprised at the sudden show of intimacy from her. “Your Majesty,” she said, with a deep curtsey to Dior and Nimloth. “We had no word that you were coming but it is nevertheless a very happy surprise and we are pleased to welcome you to Menegroth and to welcome your reign.” Dior merely nodded stiffly before Galadriel continued. “May I inquire as to the health of your parents?” She raised her eyes to Dior’s with a polite smile.

“Ill, I’m afraid,” Dior said stiffly, as though he did not know what to make of the situation. “We would have come a year earlier, after the dwarves had been slain, were it not for their illness.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” Galadriel said. “They have always been very dear to us.” 

Dior was silent for a moment after that, chewing the inside of his cheek, then he turned his quick eyes to Celeborn once more and said, “I presume that this is Galadriel, the Noldo.”

“My consort, and ambassador to the Noldor,” Celeborn replied coldly. “And she is able to speak for herself.” Dior bristled visibly at the remark, his shoulders growing stiff, and Celeborn felt Galadriel clench his hand tightly. He felt some mild regret for having undone what efforts she had made to smooth over the tense situation, but his dislike of Dior had already grown very strong and he had not appreciated the way that he had referred to Galadriel.

“Is this the state I find my grandfather’s kingdom in?” Dior said, drawing himself up to his full height. He was still not as tall as Celeborn. “This palace is in ruins. The paths through the forest are overgrown and the wardens sparse. Now I arrive in Thingol’s great hall and find it is little more than a refugee camp!”

“The people are weary and too few to sustain the kingdom,” Celeborn retorted. “And there is no safety here, not anymore, with Melian’s girdle gone. It is only a matter of time before the sons of Fëanor come to seek their revenge.”

“Yes, I presumed from the state of things that you were running away,” Dior said, raising a dark brow. 

“This is the time for practicality, not pride,” Celeborn interrupted him. “To stay here is folly and certain death. If we can meet with Círdan’s people at Balar we may be able to journey eastward and establish new realms there, far away from the ruin that is most assuredly coming.”

“The ruin that is most assuredly coming!” Dior laughed and shook his head as if he pitied them. “And who told you this foul fantasy?” His eyes drifted towards Galadriel, and Celeborn understood well the implication. “Doriath has stood for thousands of years as a bulwark against Bauglir and I do not mean to abandon my grandfather’s kingdom nor the heritage of our people. She will stand yet. We will make her great again and there will be no room in my new realm for those who are not willing to help her reclaim her glory.”

“This is folly!” Celeborn cried. “You would lead these people to their deaths for your pride and ignorance, because you are too young to know what true danger is!”

“Mind your tongue!” Dior bellowed, his blue eyes sparking with anger, his hand flying out to grip the front of Celeborn’s tunic. Galadriel saw the flash of anger in Celeborn’s eyes in that moment and her heart leapt in fear that he might strike the king, but the moment passed and he remained silent, though Dior, at least, seemed shaken by the Prince’s unspoken defiance. “Mind your tongue,” Dior said again, quietly this time, his voice suddenly uncertain as he released his hold on Celeborn’s tunic and stepped back, his eyes lingering on his silver hair. Celeborn met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Take your…consort…and adjourn to your chambers,” Dior said to Celeborn, tight-lipped, before he turned to his servants. “I want these halls cleared! This is no market, nor a place for vagabonds to loiter. This is the king’s great hall and I will have it looking as such before sunrise!”

Celeborn felt Galadriel’s hand clench tightly about his once more but he turned away from her to where Galathil had approached Nimloth and was speaking to her in hushed tones. He could see the unshed tears brimming in his niece’s eyes and heard her whisper. “You ought to remind my uncle who Thingol’s heir is! Do you not understand the position that my husband is in?”

“Nimloth,” Galathil whispered, “your uncle is right. It is unsafe here and the people do not stay willingly. There are too many dark memories…” his voice cracked, “…memories of those we lost…”

“Come,” Galadriel whispered, her hand on Celeborn’s elbow, leading him from the hall. “It would be better if we were away from here.” He went willingly with her, if only to be away from Dior, but the walk back to their quarters seemed interminable and Galadriel could feel could feel that he was shaking.

Dior’s reign proved to be no more auspicious in the following months than it had from the first and it was with a heavy heart that Galadriel reached up to clasp a glimmering silver strand laced with sparkling violet amethysts about her throat. Nervously she ran her fingers over the gemstones, swallowing hard, taking a deep breath.

“Are you not ready yet?” Celeborn asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway wearing the beginning of a frown. She started up from the vanity perhaps a bit faster than was wise and accidentally set it to wobbling, forced to reach out and steady a bottle of scented water before it toppled over. 

“Yes…yes I believe I’m ready,” she murmured, casting her eyes down at the voluminous skirt of her silver gown and smoothing her hands over the silk. But everything felt wrong about tonight. Celeborn was tense, had been tense ever since Dior’s arrival a year before, and she could hardly blame him. Dior had a penchant for wanting to oversee every minute detail of the kingdom’s workings and goings on and Celeborn chafed under such authority. 

Nor had things been particularly good for her either as of late. The tides of political opinion and public sentiment had gradually been shifting since Thingol’s death and most particularly since the attack by the dwarves but now, with Dior’s arrival, they seemed to be accelerating even more and suspicion and distrust of outsiders was at an all time high in the kingdom. She had begun to notice the way that elves who had previously been friendly with her now eyed her as though she were keeping secrets. What was more, old political agendas that had surfaced centuries ago at the zenith of discord between the Sindar and the Noldor were now being bandied about in every day conversation. There were many now who spoke openly not only of expelling the Noldor from the kingdom, but of tightening strictures on the green elves and Avari as well. 

“We don’t have to stay all evening,” Celeborn said, his words clipped and his tone anxious. “We’ll just stay long enough to show our faces…” his words drifted off. It was clear he was thinking of something else, but Galadriel was glad for what he had said. The sooner they could leave, the happier she would be. 

“Very well,” she murmured, tidying her skirts before she took the arm he offered her. This should all have been second nature, given how many times she had entered the great hall on the arm of her betrothed, but it felt now as if something was gravely amiss and she could not help but notice the covert glances that were thrown in her direction or the way that Celeborn drew her in close, a certain protectiveness settling about him as of a man who fears what little he has will soon be taken from him.

“The King is not here, not yet,” she murmured as they moved slowly amongst the courtiers, inclining their heads graciously at the bows made to them, but some tension was nearly palpable in the room, a tension that seemed to have been building for centuries but was now boiling to a head. 

“No, not yet,” Celeborn replied in a voice that indicated his mind was elsewhere, and as his fingers tightened around her waist, drawing her into the dance, she looked into his eyes and saw some strange confluence of sadness and concern there.

“You are worried,” she murmured, as they began to weave their way amongst other dancing couples. He looked away for a brief moment and then back at her.

“Can you feel it?” He asked her in a whisper, voice thick with worry.

“Yes…but I can’t quite put my finger on it…” she began but he interrupted.

“They don’t want us here,” he said and Galadriel felt her heart shudder to a stop.

“They don’t want _me_ here,” Galadriel replied and then, in an instant so brief that had she but blinked she might have missed it, she thought she saw his heart break, like a bow that had been held interminably until the tension became too great and the string snapped, shattering the wood.

“I want you here,” Celeborn said, drawing her so close that her face was nestled in the shoulder of his tunic and she felt his hand gentle against the back of her head. But, she could hear the whispers as they moved through the hall, feel their eyes upon her, heavy as millstones.

_It isn’t right, the mingling of Noldor and Sindar._

_This was what started all this trouble in the first place. If they had never come to our lands Doriath would not be in her current predicament._

_They’re all greedy, the lot of them. How much longer will it be before they turn their swords on us? They did it to the Teleri. It is only a matter of time._

_And how can her loyalty be guaranteed? Noldorin witch! She has beguiled our prince and how easily he falls into her snare!_

_Thingol was too soft on such matters. Doriath is a Sindarin kingdom and she should be for the Sindar. What need have we of the counsel of foreigners?_

_Dior’s policies in that regard are sound. He heralds a new dawn for Doriath and here the prince was trying to convince us to abandon our kingdom, to exile ourselves in the east, to take a once great people and make us into nothing more than homeless wanderers._

_It was her doing no doubt_ … The whispers reverberated around them, drifting through ears and out of them, winding their way through the music, 

“We should go,” Celeborn whispered, his fingers tight like iron on her hand, and suddenly Galadriel realized what it was that sounded so strange about his voice – it was fear – and his fear rattled her heart, for Celeborn never feared. 

But just as he said it, a hush ran through the hall like a current of lightening, more powerful in its silence than a thousand words. They turned, hearts quaking in mutual terror, and saw that Dior had arrived, climbing the dais where Thingol had once sat upon his throne and taking the seat his grandfather had commanded so naturally. Yet there was no hesitation now in Dior’s stride, but the confidence of a man who is certain that he has triumphed, for about his neck was clasped the Nauglamir and, set in its center, blazing like a star, the Silmaril.

“Today,” Dior began, his voice booming through the caverns, “heralds a new day for this kingdom, a new dawn for Doriath! No longer will we hide in our caves, subject to the wills and whims of foreign princes.” The air seemed charged with energy, the people beginning to chatter excitedly at the proclamation of their King. Dior glanced around his hall, his shoulders set proudly, his head held high, his eyes coming at last to rest upon Celeborn and Galadriel.

“Long has Doriath bent to the will of naysayers who do not place their faith in her strength, who would rather abandon these magnificent halls of my grandfather to wreck and ruin, who listen to and abide by the counsel of foreign tongues. But from this day forth Doriath shall be for the Sindar and we shall make her great again as she was of old! Too long has Beleriand been overrun by Noldorin princes who stole the homes of our people, purporting to fight a war against Bauglir! But what good have they done? Still Bauglir reigns in the north! I say it is time for Sindarin might to assert itself! It is time at last for our people to reclaim what is ours!”

“He is mad,” Galadriel murmured, her heart pounding with fear as she clutched at Celeborn’s hand as though it was the sole anchor of sanity in the world, “all of this is impossible.”

“He is telling them what they want to hear,” Celeborn replied. “Come, let us go. There is nothing we can do here.” His grip on her hand was like a vice as he pulled her from the hall, and she wasn’t sure if it was his hand or hers that was trembling. 

Somehow they made their way through the inky black labyrinthine halls of Menegroth, clutching at the stone with a certain desperation, and Galadriel could feel Celeborn’s panic bleeding through to her, could taste the despair that drove him to seek cool, fresh air. It was a sorrow she felt most keenly, the sorrow she had tasted in the bitter nights of the Helcaraxë when hope seemed so frail, the sorrow of dreams bastardized by fate, the numb lack of feeling that made the heart ring as hollow as a vesper bell, the happiness that seemed nothing more but a phantasmal falsehood of yester year that taunted and mocked like some sinister specter of what might have been, the cruelty of adulthood gained in the crucible of war. 

She could feel it all, pounding in his veins as if it were his very life’s blood, and she welcomed that fear, drawing it within her own heart so that she might lessen his burden and take it upon herself. And then at last, just when they seemed on the verge of being swallowed by some gaping void, they at last burst out of the gates into the cool air of the night beneath a sky twinkling with infinite stars, not stopping until they had reached the great tree, _Hirilorn_. 

Celeborn pressed his forehead there against the cool bark, his hands trembling, his shoulders heaving as Galadriel gathered him into her arms, and then she heard his voice in her mind for the first time, clearer than a bell: _it will never end_. And she did not pause to ponder how this should be possible, but drew him as close as she was able, sinking with him to the lush grass at the base of the tree, her face pressed to his and their tears mingling, slipping together like a confluence of streams joining into a river.

“You are my heart,” he whispered, his voice thick with conviction, as ever, and as ever she knew that whatever Celeborn said to her he meant it with all that he was, with every fiber of his being; it was the reason she loved him. “You are my heart and I cannot live without my heart,” he gasped and she tasted the bitter salt of their tears as she took great, heaving sobs.

She wanted to comfort him, to say something that would lessen the hurt, and yet she knew that there was nothing she could say that could take away the pain, or stop the inevitable weight that moved upon them, or lessen the grief that filled her heart as she knew what he must do, must say. “Say it…” she whispered. “Say it. I already know.” But it took some time before he could staunch his tears enough to speak and, when he did speak his voice was hoarse. 

“I cannot marry you,” he gasped, cradling her face in his hands, his green eyes gazing full into hers, filled with pain. “As long as you are by my side,” he began quietly, “I will always be suspect in the minds of my people. Already this has come to pass. Now the Silmaril is here and death is assured. When Dior falls, as he most assuredly will, who will lead them if not I? Galathil they love but he has not the heart or mind of a king. Oropher they do not trust because of the wrongs his wife has committed, nor has he the patience or wisdom to lead them. There is no one else to safeguard them.” He paused, struggling with the words that he knew he must say.

“It is not for lack of love that I ask this of you,” he said, “but precisely because I love you that I must do this. This is who I am, Galadriel, for all the pain of it, for whatever doom awaits me, I cannot be untrue to myself; to do so would to be untrue to you. I will not be as Fëanor. I will not demand of you an oath that might drive you into harm’s way and will certainly bring you great unhappiness, nor will I be as Fëanor’s sons, swearing myself to that which I cannot fulfill and which brings with it only suffering, for I wish you only happiness and yet I cannot give it to you…I see it now clearly as I never could before. Perhaps I was blinded by hope, by dreams rooted in fantasy rather than reality. I thought that I could make them understand. I thought that given time, this world could accept us and the love that we bear each other. But now I see that it is not so, that no matter how long we may live…”

“…we will be torn apart over and over again,” Galadriel whispered, finishing his thought for him because she already knew in her heart what he would say, already knew because the same thoughts had infected her mind like a pestilence. “How many more times will competing loyalties and duties, differing obligations, and hopes, and dreams, divide us, cause enmity between us, turn us against each other?” He bowed his head.

“You know me, Galadriel, better than anyone,” me whispered, meeting her gaze. “You know I would fight it were there any other way, but I will not fight it at your expense or at the expense of others.”

“I know,” Galadriel said, “and I love you for it. All my life, Celeborn, I have lived under the rule of princes who would tear each other and their houses apart all for the sake of themselves and their pride…but you…” her lip trembled and she fell silent, unable to continue.

He gathered her into his arms and she felt his heart beating against her own, the warmth of him that surrounded her, the safety of his arms. “I love you,” he whispered, “and I always will, to the end of my days, however few or many they may be.”

“I know,” she said, not because she did not love him as well, she did and she knew she always would, but because she knew that he needed to hear it, needed to hear her acknowledgment that she understood it was not for lack of love that they must be parted. “I know, Celeborn, I think I’ve always known it would come to this, somehow, only…only I thought…hoped…there might be some other way.”

“As did I,” Celeborn murmured, drawing her close, pressing his forehead against hers and twining his fingers in her hair. “Or I would never have done you the injury of offering a proposal I cannot fulfill. Can you forgive me for it?”

“You are already forgiven a thousand times over,” Galadriel said, feeling his tears fall to her face, mingling with her own. “How could I not forgive my own heart?” They clung to each other in their grief, overwhelmed by the pain of it, but at last Celeborn drew back, cupping her face in his hands, and asked, “where will you go?” 

“To Gondolin,” she told him, “to live with my cousins. They will welcome me happily and it will be good to see them again after so many long years.” He nodded, unable to bring himself to speak. Galadriel too felt her words falter and it was some time before she could revive them.

“You must stay alive, Celeborn, for their sake you must,” she implored him, wrapping her arms about him, feeling the familiarity of his breathing against her own, and she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head as she buried her face in his chest. 

But they both knew they could delay no longer, that their time was now swiftly expiring like sand in an hourglass, and at last Celeborn drew back, the dreaded question on his lips, but he fixed his gaze upon hers as he asked it, determined not to falter now. “Will you release me from this betrothal, Galadriel?”

The silence hung thick between them for a moment before at last she replied. It was the question that she had known was coming, only she had wanted to live in that moment before he asked it forever, but now the moment had passed and, dreams shattered, the truth of the world stared into the depths of her.

“I release you,” she said, tears streaming down her face as, weeping, he gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly. “I release you.”

*****

“I must admit I was surprised to receive your resignation,” Dior remarked, “though not particularly displeased. In my estimation you have made a wise choice and one, I think, that will be of great benefit to both of our peoples. What you have learned here of Middle Earth you might share with the people of Gondolin and mayhap their endeavors in these lands will reap great benefits because of your guidance. But you will benefit as well I think, for amongst the Sindar you could never have become what you might amongst the Noldor.”

“Yes, indeed that is so,” Galadriel replied, feeling a greater heaviness than she had ever known. She knew he was right, that amongst the Sindar she could never have become more than a prince’s wife at best, but amongst her own people she might rise higher, might become someone truly powerful. Her own people would follow her if she set out to found her own kingdom. Even if they loved her no more than the Sindar did, they at least owed her their fealty, their loyalty, and bonds of loyalty were not something the Noldor took lightly. All of her dreams lay before her but they seemed so empty now, so dull and gray, like an old book: the cracked and torn binding no longer some decorative device, but merely a shell that held together worn pages inscribed with ink long faded, barely legible in some places, completely rubbed out in others.

“It will be good,” she said, trying to seem hopeful about her imminent journey, “to see my cousins again. Long have I dwelled in Doriath and I have nearly forgotten their faces.” She lapsed into silence. She had been trying to make herself believe that this was what she wanted but the charade was as false to her as it was to Dior and he sighed.

“Lady Galadriel…” he said, his voice sinking to a more intimate tone rather than a courtly one. “I know you bear me no great love, nor will I do you the injustice of pretending to be a friend, but I know your feelings better than you might think. All Doriath praises the love of my parents, and yet I who knew them best saw most clearly the price they paid for that love, and the toll of blood and violence that this very kingdom exacted upon them for it. “ He sighed heavily. 

“People may say what they wish about my marriage, that it was hastily done and unplanned, but is it any wonder that looking upon my own parents, I wanted neither a protracted and arduous courtship nor a spouse who would call into question my right to my throne? It is painful yes, but if you have not my love you most certainly have my respect. You are doing yourself a service, your people a service, and what children you may have as well. This is a queenly thing that you have done.”

“I thank Your Majesty for your kind words,” Galadriel said, bowing low. “And I shall ever be grateful to Doriath for housing me and caring for me in my time of need. May it be so that there is ever friendship between the houses of Elwë and Finarfin and I shall carry your messages of good will with me to the people of Gondolin.”

“Then may it be so,” Dior said, “and may you go in peace and find joy in the open arms of your kinsmen.”

“With your leave,” she bowed low again and Dior graciously inclined his head before she turned and made her way from the hall, walking slowly because she wanted to remember with clarity and commit to memory every detail of these halls that she would see no more. And then there was also the reason that, upon leaving this hall, she must bid farewell to Celeborn. 

She could not help thinking that it might very well be their final farewell, that when the sons of Fëanor came, and they would most assuredly come, they would kill him. For Celeborn could not be persuaded to leave, that she knew, and so she did not speak of it to him. He knew just as surely as she what fate awaited him and she tried to make her peace with it by telling herself that if there was ever a fitting way for Celeborn to die it would be in defense of his people. The thought caused her heart to tremble in her chest and she drew a deep breath, willing the tears down as she passed out of the king’s great hall and into the labyrinthine corridors of Menegroth’s royal district.

Her journey was arrested by the arrival of the Queen’s retinue who had appeared in the main avenue of the royal district, headed towards the audience hall from which Galadriel had just come. Dior’s still brief reign was already marked by a certain baroque taste and Galadriel had noted the new ornate livery of the guards, certain touches to the palace – exotic ornamental fish in the ponds, tapestries encrusted with gemstones and pearls – things Thingol would have laughed at.

Nimloth was dressed in a long sort of robe composed of many layers of richly embroidered silk, the train of it trailing far behind her. Her silver hair was styled in ornate braids bound with silver and pearl ornaments that jingled as she walked, her slender wrists and fingers decorated with an abundance of bangles and rings, and about her neck, clasped in the embrace of the Nauglamir, was the Silmaril that Lúthien had taken from Morgoth’s crown. Its light cast an eerie glow about the avenue and illuminated Nimloth’s face in such a way that it accentuated the shadows, making her look weary and far older than her half century. Her ladies were dressed in the same fashion as she was. 

It was not, Galadriel noted, as if Dior was trying to imitate a Noldorin court, but rather as if he was creating in parallel some Sindarin equivalence to the opulence of Noldorin princes. The queen raised an elegant hand, bringing her ornately armored ceremonial guards to a halt and her ladies along with her. Galadriel herself was dressed in a heavy Noldorin gown in compliance with the code of dress that Dior had implemented for his audience hall, and she gathered the skirt around her as she stepped to the side and bowed low before the queen. But the Queen seemed to have business with her, for she did not continue, but turned to face Galadriel, her young babe, Elwing, held in her arms.

“Lady Galadriel,” she said by way of greeting, and Galadriel rose in response, “I have heard that you will be leaving us shortly.”

“On the morrow, Your Majesty, good fortune permitting,” Galadriel replied. The queen turned away for a moment, tending to the babe in her arms who had begun to fuss, and turned back once she was soothed. Galadriel knew that Nimloth had certainly not had the intent of angering her, and yet she felt irrational fury rising in her chest as she looked upon this young queen with her babe in arm. Nimloth had not even reached her first century and yet she had accomplished everything that Galadriel had hoped for: a respectable marriage, three secure heirs for her husband’s throne, and a queenship. 

At any other time Galadriel might not have been so upset to be greeted by such a sight, but now, in the winter of her failure and the dissolution of her engagement, the sight was almost too much to bear. “I am certain that the King has already told you,” Nimloth said pleasantly, “but I would also like to wish you well and a safe journey. You have served Doriath loyally for many years and we are very grateful for that service.”

“The honor was mine,” Galadriel said, bowing low again. She dared not say anything else, afraid that all of her anger at the injustice of the world, all of her fury that the people of Doriath had hardly proved any more open-minded than the Noldor, would come billowing out.

“I shall come by in a few hours, if you will grant me the pleasure,” Nimloth said. “For my ladies and I have prepared lembas for you as a parting gift and I should like to bestow it upon you myself.”

“I would be pleased, Your Majesty,” Galadriel made reply, though she felt anything but pleased. She was loathe to take any reminders of Doriath with her to Gondolin, anything that would reopen wounds she was trying so hard to close.

“Until then,” the Queen said with a pleasant little smile and nod of her head before her populous retinue swept off once more towards the King’s audience chamber. 

Galadriel stood and continued on her way, but even her thoughts of Nimloth had not been enough to displace her melancholy at being parted from Celeborn for what was likely to be forever. _If he perishes then mayhap I shall pass as well_ , she thought as she pondered that instant when the fragile thread between them would be cut and how, in that moment she would know beyond any doubt that he was gone to Mandos’ halls and would be reborn in Aman…Aman where she could never follow, where the Valar themselves had placed a ban upon her return. _But in Mandos we might be together, she thought taking a deep breath, as two shades, yes, but in Mandos what would there be to keep us apart? There are no loyalties there, no feuding kin, no oaths that destroy hearts just as surely as they do bodies._

She reached up, feeling the gathering moisture in her eyes and wiped it away. She had heard of those who wasted away at the death of their beloved. Why not the last child of Finarfin’s house? Surely death could not be so terrible as this crucible of horror called an earth, as the carnage of Alqualondë, as bearing witness to the deaths of all those she had ever loved. She tried to absolve herself of such morbid thoughts, reasoning that of course Celeborn would wish her to find happiness, but it was difficult to believe that such a thing was possible.

She had arrived at last and raised a trembling hand to the door, pushing it open and stepping inside. “My Lady!” The page seemed surprised by her state and she did not doubt how wretched she looked from being on the verge of tears for so long. “Might I offer you some refreshment?” 

“No, no thank you,” she said quietly, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Where has his Highness gone?”

“I do not rightly know, Lady,” the boy replied. “He left suddenly upon speaking to a warden who brought him some message. I do not know when he plans to return.” Galadriel nodded, a sudden irrational spark of anger igniting in her heart. She had wanted to make her farewells and leave as quickly as possible but now she would have to wait, and the longer she waited the deeper the pain grew.

“Very well,” she said with a sigh, “see that you inform me if you hear aught of him.”

“Indeed I shall,” the boy said with a short bow and Galadriel passed within to the main rooms where she found Paniel kneeling on the floor, folding the last of her clothes and carefully packing them into the half dozen trunks that sat open around the room. Paniel…one more reminder of Doriath she would be taking with her, but the handmaiden had offered to go and Galadriel had not wanted to refuse her and leave her to her death here in this city. 

“Would you like me to hit him for you?” Paniel asked with a wry little grin.

“It’s none of your business,” Galadriel snapped, heat blossoming in her chest, and Paniel merely raised both of her pale eyebrows and said nothing more. She felt wretched for snapping then but somehow the anger gave her something to hold onto and she didn’t quite know what to do with herself save pace, which only increased her irritation, and so she adjourned to her wardrobe and dressed in her traveling clothes. They were rather ornate and would be well suited to Gondolin save for the fact that they were old and the style outdated. She doubted the Noldor wore clothes of this style anymore. The last she had worn such things had been when she had ousted her cousins from Nargothrond. 

The breeches were of deep blue broadcloth and the boots of soft, warm brown leather. She pulled on the elegant white shirt of soft cotton and overtop of it the tunic of white silk embroidered with gold thread. Her hair she plaited into a long braid before pinning it with pearls into a low bun at the nape of her neck. They were the garments of her own people and yet, as she pinned the heavy cape of deep blue, embroidered with the white and gold sigil of her father’s house, at her throat, the clothes felt unspeakably foreign. 

With trembling fingers she reached for the handmirror that sat upon her vanity and held it before her. The person she was there seemed so unrecognizable and she could not help but recall that first week in Doriath when Melian’s handmaidens had dressed her in Sindarin dancing clothes, the way she had looked in the mirror that night and found herself in awe of who she might become. _It was not to be,_ she reminded herself, hands trembling as she pushed the mirror back onto the vanity, her breathing grown fast and irregular. 

She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, trying to remember the last time she had been with him, the way his lips felt against hers, the feel of his skin on hers, the touch of his fingers, the depth of his eyes. And then she tried to imagine never again knowing his touch. It all seemed unreal. But dwelling on such thoughts, she knew, would bring no good. Pushing them from her mind she turned, picking up her knife belt from the tidy armor rack, buckling it about her waist. But something was missing…

“Paniel?” She said quietly, confused, and then stepped out once more into the main chamber. “Paniel!”

“Yes?” The woman looked up from the chests that occupied her attention.

“Why is Celeborn’s armor gone?” Galadriel asked, some sick foreboding rising in her chest. “Did he take it with him?”

“I believe so,” Paniel replied, “but I don’t know why. He didn’t seem concerned.”

Galadriel could feel a thick blackness like oil spreading through her mind, weighing her down, and she grasped at the wall, trying to steady herself. “Galadriel!” She could hear Paniel’s voice as if from underwater and she must have lost consciousness for a moment because in the next instant she awoke to find herself crumpled on the floor, Paniel standing over her, shaking her. And just then the ground began to vibrate as their ears rang with the deep, booming peal of the bells in the deep. An eerie and ominous silence followed.

“We’re under attack,” Paniel whispered.

“They’re here,” Galadriel said, meeting her handmaiden’s eyes. She had never seen Paniel look frightened before but she did now, her eyes wide with fear, and Galadriel was just as frightened, more so perhaps. Only she had seen the horror that her cousins were capable of unleashing and she did not doubt that their anger and frustration had grown over the long centuries in which the Silmarils had lain far out of their reach.

“Is he here,” Paniel said and Galadriel turned back to her, watching the way her eyes flickered in the dim lantern light, her pupils contracting as her eyes grew dark with anger, “Curufin?” 

“Almost certainly,” Galadriel replied. Paniel was silent for a moment before she spoke again.

“I have never asked such a thing of anyone but…” She began.

“He will not leave here with his life,” Galadriel said in a low voice, reaching out to take the Sinda’s hand, determination resonating in every fiber of her heart. “Whether by my hand or another’s I swear that he shall fall today. This oath I make to you and this oath I shall keep.” Paniel grasped her hand tightly for a moment before they rose. 

“I need you to gather the women and children somewhere safe,” Galadriel said. “I will find my cousin Maedhros and try to reason with him, to gain safe passage out of the city for them. He is not so cold-hearted as the others but I do not know for certain that he can make them obey his will.”

Paniel nodded, “the laundries,” she said. “I’ll take them to the laundries. There will be room enough to hide them there and it will likely escape notice for some time.”

“Hurry then,” Galadriel bid her. “I do not yet know if they have managed to breach the gates but you must hide them before they make their way this deep into the city. Take these,” she unbuckled her knife belt and forced it into Paniel’s hands. Paniel nodded and buckled the knife belt about her waist before she drew Galadriel into a sudden and bone-crushing hug. A moment later she was gone, and as the door shut behind her, Galadriel wondered if she would ever see her again.

*****

“Reports of shapes moving through the mist, nothing more,” Glindor murmured, his voice nervous as he and Celeborn crouched in the top branches of Hirilorn. This winter was a bitter one, even for elves, with frigid winds whipping down from the north and snow falling in thick gusts that reduced visibility to near nothing. Celeborn squinted, blinking the snow from his eyelashes as he shifted in his perch, his armor creaking as he moved. He had donned it as a precaution and now he found himself glad that he had, for some ominous feeling lay heavy upon his heart now and he knew his lieutenant felt it as well.

“And nothing more was seen?” He asked again.

“No, your Highness,” Glindor replied once more and Celeborn chewed idly at his lip. It bothered him, bothered him very much that the snow was falling so thickly. It would provide excellent cover for any who might seek to draw near, guarding against even the keen eyes of the Sindar. Celeborn shrugged, rolling his shoulders, feeling the back of his neck prickle at the chill wind. 

_I wonder if all of her trunks are packed_. The thought had welled up unbidden in his mind and he cleared his throat, trying to dispel the sudden tightness that seemed to grip it. He hated the thought of letting her leave Doriath in this blizzard and his mind drifted to the nightmares she still sometimes had of the cold of the Helcaraxë. And when she reached Gondolin…who would be there to comfort her, to hold her in the depths of the night when she awoke, trembling, because the cold haunted her memory. _I should tell her to wait until spring_ , he thought, but he knew if he did he would never find the strength again to send her away. It was the same reason that upon rising this morning he had sworn to himself that he would not kiss her when she left, not even once more, for if he did he knew it would never end there, he knew he could not stop himself.

“Your Highness?” He heard Glindor’s questioning voice and knew he must have drifted away in his thoughts. 

“They saw nothing more?” He asked to cover his lapse of attention. _Dammit! He’d already asked that – twice!_ “I mean…” he stammered. She would be packing her things, all of the delicate little things that signified her presence, all of the ephemera he treasured in secret simply because it belonged to her, because wherever her filigree haircombs, and haphazardly stacked jars of rouge, and neatly placed golden slippers were, so too was… and his rooms would seem all the more empty for the lack of them, for lack of her.

His gaze drifted out over the forest as he struggled to focus his mind, forcing himself to recall his battle training, sweeping his eyes back and forth over the land before them. Any soldier worth his salt knew your own eyes could play tricks on you, that the mind was made so that it filtered out anything that was amiss, replaced what was actually before you with what it remembered from the past.

 _Am I really seeing what is before me, or is it all merely the past coiled back upon itself so that whatever I have lived before I will be doomed to live over and over and over again?_ There – movement in the gusts of snow. His grip tightened on the frigid wood of the tree’s branches. He was certain he’d seen something.

“Sir?” Glindor murmured.

“There between the trees,” Celeborn said, pointing. “I saw something move.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Now his senses were on full alert but the snow in the dusk of gathering night made seeing almost impossible and he squinted, peering through the mist of white snowflakes. All he could see were shapes and shadow, yet they lay still…silent…

“There!” Glindor hissed and Celeborn turned to where his lieutenant was pointing. “I’m certain,” Glindor said. “I’m sure I saw it move.”

“What did you see?” Celeborn asked, heart pounding like a hammer; he was sure he’d seen it too just now.

“Like a…like a banner perhaps…fluttering in the breeze…” Glindor began, but he needed say nothing more before a familiar noise reached their ears, a keen, piercing whistle that signaled an inbound arrow.

“DOWN!” Celeborn cried, shoving Glindor hard in the back and the two of them fell from the top of Hirilorn to land on the frozen ground. It was not an easy fall, given that Hirilorn was the tallest beech in the whole forest and given that the soil was hard with cold, and Celeborn landed with a thud that rattled his bones and took the breath from him momentarily. However; it was a far better fate than what would have awaited them. With a loud thwack, a flaming, oil-soaked arrow buried itself into the tree and the whole thing immediately burst into roaring flames, the dry wood of winter especially susceptible to the spread of fire.

“Run!” He shouted, pulling a still-dazed Glindor up from the ground as soon as he was able to catch his breath again. “Into the city! Run!” And then he was pushing the lieutenant ahead of him, feet pounding across the frozen ground, bruised lungs straining against the frigid air, his heart thudding a dull beat in his chest. He and his wardens came gasping through the city gates, trembling, and not entirely from the cold.

“Muster the soldiers and alert the king,” he shouted to Glindor. “Close and bar the gates!” He cried to the guards, who quickly leapt to their task, but even as the great gates of Menegroth began to close, he could see them coming through the white fog of winter, a massive army, and just barely visible through the falling snow, the banner of Fëanor.

*****

Slipping the little fruit knife that Celeborn had bought her so long ago into her pocket, Galadriel pushed her way out into the halls of Menegroth to find they were even more of a disaster than Galadriel had imagined they could be. They were packed with elves rushing here and there, or rather, trying to rush. It was impossible in this massive press of people to get anywhere quickly. Some were dragging belongings behind them and at any other time Galadriel might have scoffed at what seemed a blatant display of materialism in the face of death, but she could see the practicality in it now, though it was still useless. The winter outside was the bitterest that Doriath had seen in centuries and she knew it was no accident that her cousins had come at this time. Whomever they did not manage to kill would have to survive against all odds out in the wild.

And all of the preparations she and Celeborn had made, all of the cloaks, all of the food…it had all been for nothing, all because of Dior! She cursed him in her heart, feeling the warm flush of anger upon her face. _Maybe there would be time…time at least to retrieve the cloaks_ …somehow she doubted it. And yet dwelling on that thought gave her something to think about other than the horrifying whisper that pulled at her heart, the one that said, _Celeborn is in grave danger._

She shut her eyes against that thought, feeling the beginning of tears pull at her eyes as she was buffeted about by the jostling crowd. _He must have gone to the gates. Someone must have seen them coming._ It was his duty, she knew, his duty to defend his people until his dying breath. And she would not have loved him if he had been the sort of man to flee from his duty, just as he himself had said, yet the cold realization of what that duty meant shattered her heart into a thousand pieces like a delicate glass tumbling to its death upon the stone floor. 

She tried to push the thoughts away, knowing they would do her no good, knowing she could do Celeborn no good if she allowed such melancholy to overcome her judgment. She had to focus now on getting his people away from this place and so she must, absolutely _must_ find some way to get the cloaks and food to them so that they could survive the journey to the mouths of Sirion. She reached up to wipe the tears away but, just as she did, she found her arm caught in a tight grip and looked up from the floor to find an unfamiliar face before her, some man she did not know, yet his eyes were full of malice.

“Here she is!” He cried. “Our prince’s whore!” And Galadriel saw other untrusting eyes turn towards her, felt the press of hands upon her as she was forced back into the wall. She had only been thinking of the danger her cousins posed, and so she had never considered that the Sindar might turn on her, though now, now that she felt the cold steel of a blade pressed to her throat, now it all made sense. Many of the people stopped and stared, but to her horror none of them rose to her aid.

“Let go of me,” she said, her heart trembling in her chest. “You have no quarrel with me.”

“Haven’t we?” The man who held her said. 

“I think we have,” said another, and soon several others had chimed in.

“They’re at the gates now, that’s what we heard. What if your people manage to breach our gates? We’ll have a wolf in our midst then, when you turn on us.”

“They’re not my people!” Galadriel cried, knowing it would do no good to instigate a physical struggle. “They hate me and I hate them! They want nothing more than to kill the man I love…”

“Do you really love him?” Someone sneered. “You’re just like the rest of your lot, a power-hungry, thieving Noldo. All you desire is the silver crown of Doriath on your golden head and the only way for you to ever get a crown is through marriage.”

“That isn’t true,” Galadriel replied, feeling the knife digging into her neck, the trickle of blood that was now running down her throat. 

“I say we slit her open,” said another. “If elves are killing elves now then why shouldn’t we take our vengeance?”

“Unhand her!” Galadriel heard the cry of a familiar voice and breathed a heaving sigh of relief as the knife was pulled away from her throat. “Unhand her!” Nimloth cried again, pushing her way through the crowd, her face streaked with the dried salt of tears, her baby clutched in her arms. “Galadriel are you alright?” The young queen asked, drawing a handkerchief from her bodice and dabbing at the trail of blood. 

“Yes, yes I think so,” Galadriel nodded, blinking away tears as she pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart racing. She hadn’t realized how frightened she’d been, not until Nimloth’s arrival. 

“How dare you?” Nimloth cried, turning to the citizens who stood about. “She has lived among us years uncounted, trusted by your prince and by Thingol and Melian, friend of Lúthien who was the forbearer of your King. What right have you?” The spark of her Sindarin fire was enough to engender shame in the hearts of those who stood there and, bowing and mumbling their apologies, they began once more to move through the halls.

“It’s all a horrid mess isn’t it?” Nimloth whispered, turning back to Galadriel, her eyes wet with tears yet unshed, dabbing at the blood again. “They’ve breached the gates you know…” her lip trembled for a moment before she managed to gather her courage again. “We’re all going to die.” 

“Celeborn!” Galadriel gasped, feeling sick, but Nimloth only shook her head.

“I don’t know Galadriel, I don’t know where he is,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks now, but Galadriel reached out and took her hand, wiping away her own tears.

“You don’t have to, Nimloth,”she said. “Come with me. I’m going to try to get the women and children out…”

“They won’t let me leave, Galadriel,” she said, shaking her head, eyes rimmed red. “They’ll never let me leave; you know it as well as I. And…” she paused, “and even if they would I wouldn’t go. Dior is determined to stay, to fight until the end, and I shall stay by his side, loyal to the last.”

“He betrayed you!” Galadriel said, face flushing red with anger. “He doomed us all to death when he could have prevented it. Even now, perhaps if he surrendered the Silmaril…”

“You know he never will!” Nimloth said, her voice filled with passion, her eyes aflame. “I have begged him countless times, Galadriel, and he will not listen to me!”

“Then leave him to his own fate,” Galadriel implored her. “It does not have to be your fate as well!”

“And would you leave Celeborn to his death, even if you were furious with him, even if it were his own doing?” Nimloth said and Galadriel fell silent, for she knew the answer as well as Nimloth did. 

“Then Nimloth, think of your children,” she begged her squeezing her hands. “Think of what is best for them.”

“I have,” Nimloth said, pushing the bundle she held into Galadriel’s arms. “Take her, Galadriel, I beg of you. There’s a chance, maybe…” she looked up into Galadriel’s eyes, taking a deep breath. “There’s a chance they’ll let you out, that you will be allowed to leave here with your life. You are their kin after all. Lie to them, say she’s yours, do whatever it takes, I beg you, only save my daughter’s life. I know I have no right to ask you this, but for her sake I do ask it.”

“Your sons?” Galadriel asked, clutching the baby tightly to her.

“I thought it best to send them all separately,” Nimloth said. “A…better…a better chance that one will survive. My handmaidens have them. But please, Galadriel, please swear…”

Galadriel swallowed hard, throat tight, tears falling freely now, and nodded. “I will,” she said. “I will not allow them to harm her. I will not allow her to fall into their hands. I swear it to you.”

Nimloth nodded, allowing herself one heaving sob as she drew Galadriel into her arms and Galadriel could feel that she was trembling with fear. “Thank you…” Nimloth whispered into her ear and then, “was that all true, what you told me when I was a child, or was it a fairy tale? Is there really a city built of pearls, with sand strewn with jewels?”

“Yes, it is true,” Galadriel replied, her tears falling to glimmer in the queen’s silver hair. “My mother’s city, a peaceful city.”

“Then I shall go there when Mandos releases me,” Nimloth whispered, “and mayhap we shall meet again on that golden strand.” With that she was gone, turning and pushing her way back through the teeming masses before Galadriel could say anything else, as if she feared her courage would fail her if she did not go immediately.

*****

“FALL BACK!” Celeborn cried as the great wooden doors splintered beneath the force of the iron battering ram, shards of wood as long as a full grown elf was tall flying through the air with immense force. “Fall back!” It was a futile battle and he knew it, but they had no choice except to fight, trapped here now like fish in a net. Menegroth’s caves had always provided them safety, but now they were to be the death of them, a hole from which there was no escape.

They gathered at his cries, taking their formations at the entrance to the city, sharp spears bristling, thousands of arrows nocked and ready, but he could sense the desperation running through them like a poison and knew that they, like he, knew they were fighting against impossible odds. He was hardly a green soldier, but something about this battle twisted his stomach into knots.

“Sir!” Glindor had returned and Celeborn felt his hand on his shoulder, heard his voice in his ear, a whisper. “The King will not come.”

“Will not come?” Celeborn asked, his heart smoldering with sudden anger, turning to face his lieutenant. “And why?”

“He did not say, Your Highness,” Glindor replied, his eyes filled with nearly as much anger as Celeborn.

“It’s that cursed rock,” Celeborn said, swearing an oath so filthy it would have made orcs cringe, heart heaving with rage. He turned, stalking back and forth for a moment before he pulled his great war bow from its place at his back and strung an arrow. “Very well then,” he said with a jerk of his head, eyes meeting Glindor’s. “To Mandos’s Halls with the King. Let him die on his throne if he wants. As for us, we shall defend our kingdom to the last.”

A fatalistic grin spread across Glindor’s face as he pulled his great bow from his back. “That is what I was hoping you’d say Sir. It has been an honor serving with you.”

“The honor is mine,” Celeborn said, gripping the short lieutenant’s hand firmly before he turned to the troops.

“You fight now for your kingdom, your family, your home!” He cried to the army of Doriath, every muscle in his body quaking now with anger. “Show our enemy no mercy, for we shall not be shown any! Be brave, as true Sindar, and if it is your time to journey to Mandos’s halls then do not fear, but sing your war song and go as a hero returning to his home! I am with you to the last!” He punctuated his sentence with a gesture signifying that they loose their bows and a hail of arrows went careening in a deadly wind towards the shattered gates, felling the Noldorin soldiers who had begun to spill through them.

“Stand strong!” He cried as a volley of arrows descended upon them, several of them glancing off of his armor. He might have had more caution for his life if he had not been so furious with Dior, with the sons of Fëanor, with fate itself, if he had had more to lose. And, as the soldiers rushed forward, he drew his great battle axe, the heft of it familiar in his hands, relishing and anticipating, as any experienced soldier did, the meeting of armies, even as he acknowledged in his heart the grimness of the task before him.

The memory of Mablung filled his mind, the way his friend had begged for death in the end and how he had given it to him, the pain of it, that was an echo of what he had felt so long ago beneath the starlit battlefields of Beleriand, the pain of ending the life of another elf. And these too were no different, he reminded himself, they were not his friends as Mablung had been, nor were they twisted and made horrific as those elves who had been sculpted into orcs, but they were elves all the same, elves who had fallen into Bauglir’s net, the same as them all.

They were charging forward now, their feet carrying them ever closer to the Noldorin army, and then, like waves breaking upon the shore, they crashed into one another with the thunder of steel on steel. Knowing that he had to kill lest he be killed did not make it any easier for Celeborn to sink the blade of his axe into a dark-haired Noldorin soldier, nor to watch the spirit leave his eyes as he fell.

Through the raging battle he could see the sons of Fëanor in their magnificent glittering mail, so much stronger than the armor of leather, and bone, and metal that he wore. Their standards were thrust high in the air, billowing in the winter’s air that gusted in through the ruined city gates, snow sweeping in with the chill winds, a blanket of white that fell and melted in the hot red blood of Sindar and Noldor alike. The blood of their people flowed together in a confluence of separate lives made alike by the final arbiter of death. 

_What good would it have been?_ He thought. _What good would it have been for us to marry in a world such as this, a world where our families will be eternally at war, where our kinsmen cut each other down as if they are little more than wild animals, where the grueling heritage of murder and bloodletting and hatred would be our only inheritance?_

A despondence such as he had never felt before occupied his heart. He felt more badly shaken than he ever had since that day he had first discovered how the orcs had come to be and he had to concentrate to keep his hands steady, to keep his mind sharp. He pivoted, bringing his blade swinging around so fast that it sang as it cleaved through the air and found a home in the back of another golden-mailed soldier. He pulled it free as the man fell, trying to quell the horror that filled his heart. 

_But Galadriel_ …His eyes found the forms of her cousins once more, watched the near mechanical way that they hewed down those before them, killers accustomed to killing, and then he knew, knew in his heart of hearts with utmost certainty that they would not stop with the Sindar, just as they had not stopped with the Teleri, that no one was safe from beasts such as these, that when it came to it they would kill the Noldor as well if they had to.

He supposed that in the secret recesses of his mind he had thought that if Galadriel bore no association with him then they would spare her for the sake of kinship, though he knew they bore the House of Finarfin no love, but now he saw that it was not so, for he knew Galadriel better than anyone and, most of all, he knew that for all her pride, for all her faults, she would defend what he loved to her dying breath. And if she defied them, as she most certainly would, then they would kill her, he was sure of it. 

Those inexperienced in battle often underestimated the strength it took to prolong a fight, underestimated the strength it took to bear a heavy weapon, to swing it countless times over and over again, to move at the peak of physical exertion, to keep the mind constantly sharp and aware. Celeborn had been a soldier now for nearly 2,000 years and yet he could feel that even his strength was beginning to fail, his parries becoming slower, his movements less agile, his strikes less accurate. But, at the sudden realization that Galadriel _would_ die along with the rest of them if he did not do something, anything to stop this, he saw clearly for the first time that everything he loved in her he loved because he had loved it first in Doriath, in his own people. No, she was not a Sinda, but what did it matter? The threads of her soul were woven of the same stuff from which this kingdom was made. 

And then he knew with pure conviction that he must, must, _must_ find her and that he must, must, _must_ marry her whether in this life or the next. Even if he had to defy the Valar themselves he would find her again, tear her from the Halls of Mandos if he had to. He had not the Maian blood of Lúthien, nor a voice to charm even the ears of Námo, but he would find some way, some impossible way to find her again. He had thought that it would be impossible for him to rebuild with her at his side but now he saw that it would be impossible without her, that if he could not save her then all of it, everything he had ever loved, would be lost and there would never, in all the ages of Arda, be any way to repair it.

The battle raged on around him, impossible to win, the Sindarin soldiers falling like leaves in the depth of autumn, but he felt now the fire burning in his heart and now, now that he knew there was no chance for salvation, not even for Galadriel, he knew that he was holding nothing back and now, now that there was no fear in his heart, he found what strength he had held in reserve. If he were to die then he would not die as Thingol had, nor as the sons of Fëanor, thrall to a bit of crystal, nor would he die as an orc, chained and twisted in Belegur’s dark halls. If he were to die then he would die as Lúthien had at the first, with love in his heart, loyalty on his breast, and a song on his lips, defiant to the last.

“MAEDHROS!” He roared into the great din of slaughter. “You can kill us, but at least we shall not die as you, at least we shall not die as slaves!” He started the song out low, a solitary voice, but Doriath’s soldiers joined in until the chorus filled the hall, until the walls of stone echoed with a thousand upon a thousand voices, until the earth itself trembled beneath their strength.

  
_We circle round, we circle round,_  
The boundaries of the earth.  
Wearing our long wing feathers as we fly,  
Wearing out long wing feathers as we fly.  
We circle round, we circle round,  
The boundaries of the sky. 

*****

It was with a sigh of relief that Galadriel at last arrived at the laundries. The crowds streaming through the corridors had made the going difficult and she could hear the fighting growing closer, the clashing sound of metal on metal and muffled shouts in both Sindarin and Quenya filtering down from the corridors above them. But the laundries were pitch black and, as she entered…

“Stop right there!” A voice growled as a candle was thrust into her face and, for the second time that evening she found the blade of a knife pressed to her throat, some dark sense of foreboding made her feel as though it might not be the last.

“Oh, you,” Paniel said, pulling the knife away and rolling her eyes.

“Well you seem unhappy,” Galadriel snapped, still startled by the blade she had been met with.

“Disappointed is more like it,” Paniel retorted. “I thought I was finally about to shed some Feanorian blood.”

“Well maybe you’ll have your chance yet,” Galadriel replied as Paniel ushered her in. There in the laundries were hundreds of women and children, huddled in the dim light of the solitary taper that Paniel held in her hand, staring at Galadriel with frightened and distrustful eyes. But, to Galadriel’s great relief, she saw that each of them was clothed in a warm cape. 

“The cloaks!” She exclaimed in surprise and Paniel shrugged. 

“The girls from the laundries are reliable,” she said. “I made them all run to fetch them.”

“The food as well?” Galadriel asked and Paniel nodded.

“There was quite a bit of dried deer meat in the cellars, and piles of lembas in the kitchens. I assume it was the lembas the Queen meant to gift to you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Galadriel said with a shake of her head. “I’m quite glad for it.”

“Well I saved some for you,” Paniel said gruffly, forcing a packet of it into Galadriel’s arms and she took it, struggling to hold both it and the baby. “The princess?” Her handmaiden asked, eyes lingering on the child. 

“Yes,” Galadriel said.

“Then they’re…”

“I don’t know. But they certainly aren’t leaving here…” Their hushed conversation was brought to a halt by the sound of shouts, running feet, and the din of weapons in the corridors directly above the laundry. The women began to chatter as they pulled their children close, fear evident in their hushed voices.

“Quiet!” Paniel snapped. Grabbing Galadriel’s hand, she pulled her down to the floor with her, beside another woman carrying a baby in her arms, a woman with tangled, matted, greasy hair, wearing simple brown homespun, her face dirtied with soot.

“Venessiel!” Galadriel gasped before Paniel snuffed out the candle, plunging them into darkness. 

She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder and then heard Venessiel whisper, her voice trembling, “have you heard aught of Oropher?”

“Nothing,” Galadriel replied, shifting Elwing to one arm so that she could reach out with her other hand to squeeze Venessiel’s gently. 

They sat for a long while in the dark and silence, the hours seeming interminable as the sounds of the battle raged on over their heads. The noises were just faint enough that they could not discern whose voices they might be, but the words they managed to glean from the shouts in Sindarin and Quenya were enough for them to know that it was not the Sindar who would have the triumph that day. The shrieks of those who were slain filled them with terror, as did the scraping sounds of blade meeting blade, and Galadriel knew that each woman there was wondering the same thing: if those whose death cries they could hear were their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons.

But the women remained silent, knowing their survival depended upon it, the only noise that of suppressed sobs. Galadriel could not bear it either and closed her eyes, the warmth of Elwing at her breast some small comfort as she pressed a gentle kiss to the soft, dark silver fluff of hair on the baby’s head. Elwing stirred, oblivious in her slumber to the death and suffering that surrounded her.

With every second that passed Galadriel grew ever the more frightened that Celeborn must have fallen and she hated this waiting precisely because it gave her ample time to dwell on such dark thoughts. Surely it was impossible that he were alive. The severely depleted forces of Doriath could never stand against the combined might of her cousins’ armies. And she knew Celeborn, knew he would be on the front lines, knew that he would challenge any of her cousins directly. It wasn’t that she thought him a weaker fighter, indeed, she was certain that he could hold his own against them, but she knew that he could never fight all six of them at once; no one could. What was more, she was certain that they were determined to kill him, that none of the members of the royal family would be leaving alive if her cousins could help it and Celeborn…with his silver hair…would make an obvious target.

She choked back the tears that threatened to fall, the few that escaped her eyes tumbling to the tightly swaddled babe in her arms as her heart trembled in fear. Time seemed as if it had stopped and she knew not how many hours had passed, but those hours seemed unbearable, as if they would never end. And then…worse than the screams was the sudden silence that signified the battle had almost certainly come to an end, the silence that signified that, after so many thousands of years, Doriath had at last fallen. It was as if everything had suddenly gone hollow, as if time had stopped and they had lost any bearing of where they were or when. 

That was when they began to hear it, faint but sure; the sound of Quenya drifted through the silence of the laundries, echoing against the stone of the walls, growing closer and closer, and a near palpable tremor of terror ran like a current through the woman and children gathered there huddled in the dark.

“What are they saying?” Paniel whispered, her hand clutched tightly about Galadriel’s wrist, and Galadriel could feel Venessiel pressed against her other side, holding her babe so tightly in her arms that it seemed nearly as if she would smother her. 

“The princes, Dior’s sons, have been captured by Celegorm,” Galadriel whispered as quietly as she was able. “They know there’s a princess. They’re searching for Elwing.” She looked down in the elfling in her arms, holding her tightly, her heart constricted with worry. 

“Have they said aught of Oropher?” Venessiel murmured, her voice broken and frail.

“Nothing,” Galadriel said, listening closely. “Nothing of Celeborn or Galathil either. I do not know…” The voices were drawing closer and she lapsed into silence. They could hear the footsteps now, cold echoes on the stone of the bathhouse floor and she recalled the surface of the water in Alqualondë, swimming with blood and gore. She swallowed hard to keep down the bile that threatened to rise in her throat, glancing down at the babe in her arms, brushing back the downy dark silver fluff of her hair.

Celeborn, they had said nothing of him. She felt her heart clench in terror in her chest at the thought that he might be lying dead in these halls of stone, deep in these dark pits away from the stars and the trees that he loved so well. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the images. _Even if he is dead I will beg them_ …she thought, _I will beg them to let me give him a proper burial._ The panic rose in her chest, suffocating her, and she took a deep breath, pushing it back down. This was not the time to panic; she could not afford it. Fate had moved upon him.

The footsteps drew nearer, sharp and purposeful strides across the stone floor. They were leaving the bathhouses now. Soon they would come to the laundries. Soon they would find them. They had all known this moment would come and yet they feared it all the same. The tension in the room was nearly palpable, crawling across their skin like spiders and Galadriel could feel Venessiel trembling against her, hear the quiet tears that some of the women shed. And just then Elwing began to cry, loud squalling shrieks that resonated throughout the caverns.

“Shh!” Galadriel tried to quiet her, holding her close, rocking her in her arms, wiping away the tears that fell from small, frightened eyes, her heart hammering in her chest with fear, feeling as if it would leap out of her throat. But it was no use. Elwing did not cease her weeping and her tears had incited panic in the women gathered there so that they too began to weep and shout in fright.

The soldiers had already heard them and came running, their boots beating a sharp staccato across the ground, the sound of metal on metal as they drew their swords prompting the women to shriek in terror and rise to their feet.

“Stay calm!” Galadriel cried. “Stay calm!”

“Why should we trust the Noldorin bitch?” Somebody shouted. “She means to sell us out to them and save her own skin!”

“I mean to save your lives!” Galadriel retorted, her heart burning with equal parts fear and anger. 

“She’s a traitor to her own kin! Let us hand her over to them and save ourselves!” Someone else shouted.

“She is no such thing!” Venessiel cried. “If there is any here who is traitor it is I!”

At that the women broke into an uproar, shouting and pushing one another, but the struggle was quickly brought to an end by the arrival of the Feanorian soldiers, who cast the light of their lanterns into the room, illuminating a myriad of frightened and panicked faces. The people settled just as quickly as they had acted out, brought to heel by the wave of terror that coursed through them at the sight of Noldorin soldiers in full armor stained with the blood of Doriath’s people, swords drawn and at the ready. 

Galadriel’s heart sank as she saw that none of her cousins were among them. These were nameless and faceless soldiers who knew her not at all, nor she them. The one who appeared to be their captain glanced around the room, taking in the sight before him with cold, calculating eyes, his gaze landing upon Galadriel for a moment before he turned to his lieutenant and muttered in Quenya, “kill them all. They may be hiding the princess among them.”

“But Sir, our Lord Maedhros is already furious with our Lord Celegorm for sending the princes off with…” the lieutenant protested and Galadriel saw her chance.

“I am Artanis, daughter of Arafinwe, King of the Noldor in Aman, and of Eärwen of Alqualondë, Princess of the Noldor, Teleri, and Vanyar, and kinswoman to your Lords,” she said in Quenya, stepping forward into the lantern light. “I am the wife of Celeborn of Doriath, Prince of Doriath and of the Sindar, who is the father of this, my child, in whose veins also runs the blood of Finwë, my forbearer and that of your Lords.” Her gaze was keen and piercing, fixed upon their eyes, commanding them to obey her.

The eyes of the captain and his lieutenant had turned fully upon her now and she struggled to hide the fear that penetrated deep to the marrow of her bones. Fear was a luxury she could not afford now. Now she must be strong, now she must be Finwë’s granddaughter and the daughter of her mother and father. She recalled the look in her mother’s eyes on the day that Fëanor had threatened Fingolfin before the doors of her grandfather’s house, how she had known in that moment that her mother would have killed any who tried to harm her, kin or no. 

It was the same feeling that she felt flowing through her veins now and she knew she would protect these people at all costs, no matter their personal prejudices against her, because of her love for this kingdom and of her love for its prince, who held his people so close in his heart, and not least of all because she was determined to ever set herself against the sons of Fëanor, to defy them in all their endeavors, and to protect those they sought to harm. 

“I command you to take me to your Lord Maedhros,” she said. “You have my word that none here will make any attempt on your lives or seek to escape. We are only women and children with nothing to hide who seek to gain safe passage to the Mouths of Sirion where Cirdan, fast friend of our kinsman Turgon resides. Ever has Cirdan given good council to the Noldor.”

“Not to the sons of Fëanor,” the Captain said, no hint of compassion in his eyes.

“Sir, how much angrier will our Lord Maedhros be if any harm comes to the children here?” The lieutenant muttered to his commander, clearly trying to keep his voice low so that Galadriel could not hear him but in the confined space such efforts were of little use. “We will fall from his favor as did Celegorm’s soldiers.” Galadriel could feel her heart shuddering in her chest. She dared not ask what Celegorm had done to Dior’s twin sons but what allusions she had heard did not bode well at all and in her heart of hearts she feared the children had been slain. It should not have been such a shock when she bore in mind that she had seen them murder pregnant women in Alqualondë and children as well but perhaps it was so that there are things with which the soul cannot acquaint itself, even given long familiarity.

“I command you take me to my kinsman,” she said again, “and those here gathered with me as well. You may set a guard about us and I swear to you upon my house and upon the House of Finwë that none here shall seek to escape or hinder you in any way.” The commanders gave her no answer but gathered together, discussing the matter in quiet conversation from which she could only glean snippets of meaning. The women waited with baited breath, the tension in the room thicker than air.

“Very well,” the captain said curtly, turning back to them. “We shall allow our Lord to determine your fate. You will come with us immediately and we shall set a guard about you. But mark my words: if any of you try to escape or seek to do any harm to my soldiers you will all pay for it with your lives immediately. Is that clear?”

“It is,” Galadriel replied. “You have my most sincere gratitude and I am certain you shall have your Lord’s as well.” Having so said, she turned to the women and children gathered there, her heart hammering in her chest. She wished she could be more certain that they would not seek to escape but she rather felt as though she had a hostile mob at her back, a mob whose obedience would decide her fate as well as their own.

“I have known Maedhros all of my life,” she said to them, “and what mercy may be had will certainly come from him.” A sea of cold, hard, untrusting eyes stared back at her. She wanted so badly to beg them, plead with them, to remind them that she loved their prince, that she had lived in this kingdom for centuries, but she knew that what trust they had had for her, which had been spare to start, was diminished now to nothing. In this crucible of death and bloodshed into which they had been plunged, she was to them no different than her kinsmen who had murdered their friends, husbands, brothers, fathers, children and she could not blame them for their misgivings, still recalled the faces of the Teleri who had struck out at her in terror, not knowing whether to trust her as a friend or despise her as a foe. _And had we had children it would have been the same for them_ , the thought rose unbidden to her mind. _They would ever have been torn between Sindar and Noldor, ever both friend and foe, never fully loved, never fully trusted._ She gathered her courage against the darkness stirring in her heart.

“If you wish to stay and die then I will not stop you,” she said, turning fierce eyes upon them, hoping against hope that if she could not inspire trust in them, she could at least inspire that Sindarin stubbornness, “but if you wish to live then you will come with me.” The women glanced around at each other, speaking in hushed murmurs before they turned back to her, each of them resolved to go forward. Taking a deep breath, Galadriel turned back to the captain, nodding her assent, and the guards circled around them as they slowly began to filter from the laundries. 

Galadriel pressed a soft kiss to Elwing’s forehead as they walked, hushing the fussy babe. “Do you…have you heard aught of my husband?” She asked the captain and he glanced at her uneasily.

“I could not say,” he told her. “I would not know him if I saw him.”

“He…he has silver hair,” Galadriel said, her heart palpitating in fear. She wanted to know the answer, to know if Celeborn was still alive, and yet she feared what answer she might receive. Reaching out to him through their bond was no good. The palace was so full of fear and panic that she could not tell his from anyone else’s.

“I do not know,” the soldier replied gruffly, clearly wishing to put an end to this conversation, and Galadriel complied. 

“Please,” she heard Venessiel’s frantic whisper and turned to look at her. She was struggling to hold her babe while also pressing young Thranduil’s face into the skirts of her gown, trying to shield him from the carnage through which they were now slowly making their way. But Venessiel was speaking to Paniel and not to her. “Please,” she said, “I cannot manage them both.” Paniel nodded silently and picked Thranduil up, pressing his face into his shoulder so that he would not see the bodies.

Galadriel gradually became aware that they were leading them back to the gates and, as they approached the gates, so did the carnage grown. At first they stepped over a few bodies, then dozens, then hundreds. And then it happened, the moment that Galadriel had begun with creeping dread to realize was inevitable: one of the women shrieked and then fell, sobbing, beside a Sindarin soldier who had fallen face up, his armor stained with his own blood, his eyes cold and dead, frozen in shock. The woman clutched his body to her, rocking back and forth, tears spilling in an endless stream from her eyes as inhuman shrieks poured from her throat. 

“What is she saying?” The captain demanded, clearly nervous, grabbing at Galadriel’s arm and shaking her roughly. 

“He is her husband,” Galadriel told him, translating the Doriathrin into Quenya, her heart boiling at disgust that these soldiers could not even speak the language of those they had murdered, knowing only standard Sindarin. But her throat was choked with tears and at the sight they began to spill from her eyes at last. Would she find Celeborn’s body? It could have been any of them there kneeling on the cold hard ground, any of them clutching to their breast the corpse of their beloved.

“We don’t have time for this! We still have not recovered the Silmaril,” the Captain snapped at one of his lieutenants as several of the woman attempted to placate the forlorn widow. There was some desperation growing now amongst the women as they realized what Galadriel had: that they too might be forced to walk by the bodies of their loved ones. In the matter of an instant, one of the soldiers had taken the woman by her hair and in the next instant, with the flash of his sword, her head hung bodiless in the air before the soldier dropped it beside her corpse. 

“See? We have reunited them,” the captain said curtly. “Now move before I regret this whole foolish idea.” Galadriel felt as if she was about to be sick as the soldiers dug the butts of their spears into the backs of those who lingered, and as she glanced around she saw the women all moved in obedient compliance, what fight had been in them now broken, silent tears streaming down their faces, hands and bodies trembling violently from sheer terror. Never in her life had Galadriel witnessed with such stark clarity the breaking of a people’s spirit as in that moment when she had seen the Sindarin spirit broken, and the thought brought the tears pouring down her face as dry, croaking sobs escaped her throat. 

The slap across her face came suddenly, stinging, burning, and it left her ears ringing for a moment. “You’ll be next if you can’t keep quiet, kinswoman or no,” the captain said. “Can’t you see that I am trying to do a job here?” Galadriel heard a barely audible intake of breath from the army of women that marched at her back and felt Paniel’s hand briefly grip her elbow. They were passing now by more of the dead and in every moment she heard the strangled gasps of women who dared not stop, forced to step over the bodies of those they loved. 

And in every instant she felt sick with fear that they would round the next corner or the next and she would see him there, fallen, his green eyes gone lifeless, his silver hair stained red in the blood of his people. Never more would she see that grin of his, familiarly confident, as if he knew some secret he could be persuaded to tell, just perhaps. Never more would she see that mischievous glimmer in his eyes, or the way that his emotions ran through them with perfect clarity, the anger to move mountains, the compassion to do the same. 

With Celeborn there was never a doubt, never a doubt that whatever he felt, he felt it fully down to the marrow of his bones, to the fiber of his heart’s core. He swore no oaths, but there was never a doubt, not even the glimmer of a doubt, that whatever promises he had made he would keep, that whatever he had said he would do he absolutely would. With Celeborn there was no confusion, no uncertainty about him, her sole point of clarity, as true and steadfast as the north star, in this world where everything was uncertain, where everything she had ever known had been thrown into a gyre of chaos. 

_I will come back to you, always_ , he had whispered on the night she had first come to his bed, as soft candlelight and fingertips had traced pathways in wonder over the smooth but scarred world of skin. She had not understood at the time that he was telling her he loved her. She had not understood that he was telling her they would be parted, again and again, that this world would tear them apart. For all her prescience she had not been able to see what he had from the first. _He sees things that others do not,_ Melian had told her long ago. All her foresight had not been able to discern what his wisdom had. As she had sought to bend the future to her will it had been flowing through him freely, like the depths of a river, the currents of the ocean moving in the deep, the wind that gusted unstopped and unstoppable across the plains of the earth. 

And she knew, knew beyond any doubt, that she must, absolutely must shepherd these people to safety, barter for their free passage from this city with every resource at her disposal. If he was dead then this would be her last and greatest act of love for him and, once the people had escaped, she would kill her cousins, every last one in vengeance for what they had done, for the lives they had destroyed, not least of all her own.

Night had passed into day and it was the blinding light of the early morning sun pouring in through the open gates of Menegroth that first alerted her that they were nearing their destination. Galadriel drew a deep, shuddering breath as she saw them standing there, the unmistakable red of Maedhros’s hair and, at his side, the stormy face of Curufin the mad, their once-bright armor smeared with blood and gore.

“What is this?” She heard Maedhros ask, his voice tense, as the captain strode ahead, approaching him, and then she saw his eyes settle on her with a sort of sad surprise. She had known Maedhros since she was a girl, long enough to know regret when she saw it in his eyes. 

“Artanis…I…” Maedhros said softly as she approached, the woman and children huddling into the wide expanse of the entryway, seeming so small now beside the massive stone trees that towered up to the impossibly high ceiling. 

“What?” She said, her voice trembling with anger, her eyes filled with tears. “You didn’t think I’d be here? You knew I was here, Maedhros.” He was silent, a strange mixture of regret and resolution in his eyes, the eyes of a man who despises what he is doing but does it nevertheless. 

“Your…you child?” He asked with a strange sort of hope, a kinsman’s greeting, but Galadriel drew back, clutching the baby to her. 

“Tell me if her father still lives!” Galadriel demanded, her voice harsh and hoarse, her eyes flashing in pain and anger as she met Maedhros’s gaze.

“I do not know,” Maedhros told her, “but you know I could not promise you his safety even if I did know. He is the heir of Doriath…surely you must understand…we cannot allow him to live.”

“The heir? So _have_ you killed Dior’s children then?” She hurled the accusation at him like a missile.

“It was an accident!” Maedhros replied, seeming to realize as soon as he said it that he shouldn’t have let it slip. Galadriel could hear startled gasps and sobs at her back in response to the terrible news.

“An accident! Do not try to play the innocent, Maedhros, when you have slaughtered…”

“You fool!” Curufin wailed, turning his mad copper eyes upon his brother. “Playing in pity! Why tell them anything at all? Have done with them all now and we’ll rid the world of their thieving race!”

“I WILL NOT condone the slaughter of any more children, Curufin!” Maedhros roared, turning furious eyes on his brother, his chest heaving in anger, having lost his cool for a revealing moment, and Galadriel realized with relief that her cousins were not nearly as united as they might wish to seem. That would give her some leverage, a quarrel to exploit. 

“What did you think you were doing when you sought to sack a kingdom then?” Curufin sneered but Maedhros ignored him. 

“You seek safe passage for the women and children, yes?” Maedhros said, speaking in a low, quick voice. He was clearly nervous and Galadriel could only presume that it had a great deal to do with the fact that they had apparently not yet discovered the Silmaril. Her mind flitted briefly back to Nimloth, just now realizing that she had not been wearing the Silmaril at the last. She had assumed that Dior had taken it from her, but if Dior and Nimloth were slain then surely the Feanorians would have found it by now unless it had been hidden very cleverly. 

“I do,” she replied. “They will cause you no trouble. Only allow them to journey unhindered to the Mouths of Sirion. Cirdan is no threat to you and is a friend of our cousin Turgon.”

“She’s playing at something,” Curufin whispered, his unnerving eyes settling upon her, a sour grin twisting its way across her lips. “I say we cut her babe to pieces unless she tells us what it is.”

“This child is your kin, with the blood of Finwë running through her veins!” Maedhros rounded upon Curufin again. “I will hear no such talk from you of slaughtering those who bear our grandfather’s blood!”

“This child is an abomination,” Curufin spat, “the blood of Finwë polluted by that of a Moriquendë. And she has committed miscegeny by lying with one of the Sindar, by bearing a child of polluted blood. Let her pay for it in her blood and the blood of her child.”

“There is no reason…” Maedhros began, but Curufin interrupted him.

“By all means, Maedhros, my soft-hearted brother,” he said, “let them go. But you are a fool if you have not already discerned that they must certainly be hiding the princess among them. This is why our lovely cousin seeks safe passage.” The hall fell silent and, slowly, Maedhros turned his eyes back to Galadriel. 

“Is it true, Galadriel?” He asked and she could see in his eyes that he knew it was, that the question was nothing more than a courtesy. 

“I…” Galadriel began, trying to think of some plausible way to deny it. But then she heard someone else step forward.

“The…the Princess is here…” Venessiel stammered, holding out her own baby girl in trembling hands. A great cry rose up as the women realized what she was doing but none spoke to give away the secret of it.

“Venessiel, no!” Galadriel cried, her eyes frantic with worry. Surely her cousins would not allow this child to live. There had to be some other way…

“Perhaps the rest of you wish to die!” Venessiel shrieked, turning on the women. “But I am not about to die for the sake of the child of a king who could not protect us in the end! It is a simple matter of one life against many!”

“You traitor!” Paniel shrieked, playing into the farce, the other women joining in, shrieking in feigned anger. “A traitor once is a traitor twice!”

“A wise choice,” Curufin said with a disconcerting smile, quickly snatching up the baby. “A girl,” he remarked, prying at the folds of the blankets, and pulling the swaddling cloth back from the baby’s head, “and dark of hair as the boys were.”

“And who are you that you were entrusted with the royal child?” Maedhros asked as the vehement cries of the women resounded all about them.

“I am the wife of Oropher, Prince of Doriath,” Venessiel replied and Maedhros and Curufin exchanged uneasy looks.

“She could be with child,” Curufin muttered to his brother in Quenya, “a contender for the throne, some vestige of the Sindarin monarchy for the people to cling to and raise up in rebellion.” 

“As could our cousin,” Maedhros replied.

“And yet the child of Oropher would bear us no relation, nor can we keep watch over the mother. Artanis is of our kin and so would her child be as much of her mother’s house as of her father’s. Take her with us. We shall see soon enough if she carries his child.”

“And if she does what would you then suggest?” Maedhros asked, his auburn brows dipping into a scowl.

“Whatever seems appropriate,” Curufin grinned. “Kill the brat, raise it amongst the Noldor. We have now the opportunity to end the entire Sindarin line, to take our vengeance for the wrongs and slights that Thingol showed to us for so many centuries, to avenge their theft of our Silmaril.”

“And this child of hers?” Maedhros growled at his brother, gesturing towards the babe in Galadriel’s arms.

“What sort of life could my child possibly lead amongst your people?” Galadriel interrupted. “She would be scorned, mocked…let me send her with her father’s people that she may at least not be forced to live among those who mean to slay her father.”

“Send her with her father’s people so that they may raise her up as their figurehead, foment insurrection against…” Curufin retorted.

“A girl!” Galadriel cried. “A baby girl. What harm can a baby girl do you? Nor will the Sindar raise up as their leader a child with half Noldorin blood, most especially not after the events of today.” Sometimes the greatest way to dispel suspicion was with a flood of truth. “You told me once, Maedhros,” she said, tears spilling silently from her eyes as she turned to her cousin, “that the match was ill-fated, that I ought to think twice, that his people could never come to love me no matter how much he did…and you were right. The child I have born him will never, can never be of any threat to you, only do not make me raise her in the houses of those who slew her father and her father’s kin, I beg of you!”

“We owe her nothing and no kindness!” Curufin snarled. “Either kill the child or bring it with us. Why should we be forced to make concessions when it was her choice to breed with a dark elf?”

“I will not raise my daughter among those who slaughtered her kin!” Galadriel cried, her eyes glinting with tears and anger. “I would rather she be dead and I along with her than see her raised in your house!”

“Then I shall gladly grant your wish!” Curufin shrieked, shifting the babe he held to one arm and drawing his sword. Galadriel stumbled backward but Maedhros, in a sudden fury, grasped his brother by the collar of his tunic. 

“For the last time I tell you, we shall not shed the blood of the descendants of Finwë,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. And, despite whatever madness it was that possessed him, Curufin seemed to deem it better to heed his brother’s words rather than defy him, slinking back into submission like a snake slithering beneath a rock. But Galadriel, heart hammering in her chest, sensed her moment of opportunity, when the brothers were most divided and at the height of desperation: for there was yet one thing they had not found. 

“The Silmaril,” she choked, “I will take you to the Silmaril if you only let my child go.”

“And how do we know that you are telling the truth?” Maedhros asked her, but Galadriel sensed the urgency in his voice. She knew they had must have slain Dior and Nimloth and yet they had not yet found the stone, not yet, if they had then they would not have detained them like this. They would either have let them go or slain them all; she was willing to stake her life on it. 

“You don’t,” she replied, voice trembling with fright, “but if I am lying then I will forfeit to you my life, only let my daughter go free.”

“Take us to the Silmaril and then we shall let you daughter go free,” Curufin said, a dangerously benign smile upon his face.

“I do not trust you,” Galadriel said. “Allow her to go first and then I shall take you to the Silmaril.” She saw Curufin’s grip tighten around the hilt of his sword. 

“If she lies then I kill her,” Curufin murmured. Maedhros hesitated, his eyes deeply sad, gazing into hers, but the choice was clear and Galadriel knew it as well as he did.

“Very well,” Maedhros said, his voice soft, strangled. “If she lies you may kill her.” A pleased smile twisted its way across Curufin’s face. “Go,” Maedhros said to Galadriel, his voice soft and pained, “give her to whomever you trust. You have my word that we shall do her no harm.” Galadriel nodded stiffly, turning and approaching Paniel, her heart shuddering as she realized how fortunate it was that Venessiel had given Thranduil over to her care. The boy would escape unscathed and undetected. 

“Care for her as if she were your own,” she whispered, pressing the child into her handmaiden’s arms. Paniel nodded stiffly but said nothing else, merely reaching down to run a comforting hand through young Thranduil’s hair. The boy toddled on chubby legs, clutching at her skirts, too young to realize the danger and death that surrounded him. Galadriel bent to press one last kiss to Elwing’s warm little forehead and then turned back to her cousins, tears burning in her eyes.

With a nod from Maedhros, the guards at the gates parted and, slowly, the crowd of women and children began to make their way out of Menegroth. “You!” Maedhros cried, gesturing towards Venessiel, and the woman stopped, returning to stand at Galadriel’s side, both of the women knowing what was to come. “Kneel,” Maedhros instructed.

“Maedhros don’t, please…” Galadriel began, tears pouring from her eyes.

“It has to be this way, don’t you see?” Venessiel said, reaching out briefly to squeeze Galadriel’s hand before she did as she had been bid, kneeling on the earth before them. 

“Pity to waste her, she could be beautiful if she were cleaned up a bit,” Curufin commented, earning himself a glare from his older brother.

“We will do only what is necessary, but we will not torture unnecessarily, not as Celegorm did,” Maedhros told him quietly as he drew his sword. “You may be permitted a blindfold, if you prefer,” he said then to Venessiel, his voice not unkind, but tempered with the reality of what he must do.

“I am a Sinda and I will greet death with my eyes open,” Venessiel replied. Galadriel could see that she was fighting to remain calm, to be brave in the face of death, tears building in her eyes that she refused to let fall, her clasped hands trembling.

“As you wish,” Maedhros said, touching his blade to the back of her neck. Galadriel was determined that she would not do Venessiel the injustice of looking away and she breathed a silent prayer to Eru as she heard the gates of Menegroth close once more. The refugees were gone. Maedhros drew back his sword, the blade glinting fiercely in the dim torchlight, and then brought it swinging neatly through the air, severing Venessiel’s head from her shoulders in a single, clean stroke. It rolled the floor as her body collapsed, lifeless eyes staring up at the dark heavens. Galadriel clasped a hand over her mouth, stomach heaving, dry retching sounds escaping her throat as she stumbled backwards.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic about it, Artanis,” Curufin commented dryly while Maedhros bent to wipe clean the blade of his sword. “You’ve seen death before.” She had not been watching him, distracted by what Maedhros was doing, but she saw now that the baby’s face had purpled and Curufin withdrew his hand from the blankets, bending to place the strangled babe beside the body of her mother. “This is the natural order of things.”

“There is nothing natural about it!” Galadriel stammered, her lips trembling in fright, frantically trying to wipe away tears. No matter how many times she saw death it horrified her all the same.

“I am sorry that we had to do it,” Maedhros said gently, stepping forward as if to take her hands, but Galadriel shrank away.

“Sorry?” She cried. “You’re not sorry! You’re monsters, the lot of you! And you, Maedhros, acting as if your sympathy and your sadness makes you any better than HIM!” She pointed a trembling finger at grinning Curufin. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Maedhros replied coldly.

“Oh I understand perfectly well,” Galadriel spat, but Maedhros turned away, saying nothing, and Curufin stepped forward, gesturing to a squadron of soldiers.

“Come now pretty cousin,” he sneered. “You made us a promise. I expect you to keep it.” She felt the sharp prick of her cousin’s blade in her back and grudgingly took a step forward. In truth she had no idea where the Silmaril was and she was beginning to wonder if Curufin suspected that. What she was certain of was that he intended to kill her, whether she could find the stone or not. As they descended through the winding avenues of Menegroth she could feel her doom closing about her like a cage. She had to find some way…some way to kill him…kill them all…and then she would find Celeborn, had to find Celeborn…it was the only thought that kept her going.

“Artanis! Artanis, look here!” She heard Curufin’s laughter from behind her and turned with dread in her heart to see him pull a corpse up into a sitting position by her dark, bloodstained hair. He shook his hand, causing the girl’s head to limply sway from side to side: her throat had been slit. Curufin laughed again, as if it were some great joke, his eyes filled with perverse excitement. “Did you know her? Did you?” 

“No,” Galadriel whispered, feeling as if she needed to vomit more than she needed air. “No I didn’t.”

“Ah well,” Curufin said with a broad smile. “Perhaps next time we’ll have more luck.” Galadriel wrapped her arms tightly about herself, turning and hurrying forward through the corridors. She didn’t know where she was leading them, only that she must stall her cousin for as long as she was able, until she could think of some way to escape or kill him. But he had brought six soldiers with them and she could not fathom how she could defeat all of them in addition to Curufin.

“I won’t do it right away, you know,” Curufin purred into her ear as he came to walk beside her, wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her close. “I promise you we’ll have some fun before your death.” He bent then, suddenly distracted, turning over a body, but Galadriel kept walking.

“Stop her!” She heard Curufin cry angrily and momentarily found blades pressed to her back. Reluctantly she turned, goaded back to Curufin’s side by the spears of the guards…five? She could have sworn there had been six guards only a moment earlier.

“This man, did you know him?” Curufin grinned, the chestnut brown hair of a man clutched in his fist as he sat the corpse upright. A baker: she had not known his name, but she had known his face, still remembered the smell of the sweet rolls filled with chestnuts that he had sold at the festivals.

“No, I didn’t,” she replied, her voice hoarse, tears starting at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t want to give Curufin the satisfaction of her weeping or the validation of his macabre little game. Her cousin frowned, clearly displeased, and he threw the corpse back to the ground, kicking it fiercely over and over in a childish display of anger, shrieking. The way that he grew calm again so suddenly, as if nothing had happened, was unsettling, and he came to walk at her side yet again, the touch of his hand on her waist making her skin crawl.

“I do wish you’d hurry, Artanis,” he said as they began to walk again. “I’ve left you a little present you see, but if we’re not quick about finding that Silmaril I’m worried he’ll die before we get to enjoy him.”

“What do you mean?” She gasped, coming to a sudden halt, her heart thudding with a dull pain in her chest.

“That silver-haired Moriquende husband of yours,” Curufin said, fixing his eyes upon hers, joy glimmering in their depths. “I’ve bound him somewhere for you to find and I cut him, not enough to kill him of course, well not right away…but he’ll bleed out if we’re not quick about things, and that would ruin all the fun of watching you try to save him.”

“You’re lying,” Galadriel said, needing to believe it was a lie, but her heart trembled in her chest as she reached out to Celeborn through their bond and felt…nothing. “You’re lying. It’s not true!” She said, wanting to be strong but realizing that Curufin must be able to see the desperation in her eyes.

“Well that’s just a chance you’ll have to take,” Curufin said, as if he were explaining a difficult concept to a child. “I wonder how much blood he has in him. I wonder if it will all run out before you take me to that Silmaril. You want to hurry, don’t you…Galadriel?” The name stung now, that beautiful name that Celeborn had given her, and she wondered if she would ever again hear it from his lips.

“Yes, I want to hurry,” she said, taking a step forward, and then another, each step seeming a monumental task. She wracked her mind, trying to think of where the stone could be. Even if Celeborn were already dead she would rather turn over the stone and lose her life beside his corpse than risk never seeing him again. 

“Oh one more thing!” Curufin cried with glee and, steeling herself for the worst, she turned. “Did you know her?” He was holding up a Sindarin maid, her eyes filmy with the white of death, her skin the perfect white of snow, her lips as red as the dried blood that coated her chin, her long, silken, black hair clutched in his bloody fist: Silevren, the dancer.

“Did you?” He asked again, shaking the body.

“No,” Galadriel replied, pulling herself up to her full height. “No I didn’t.” She refused to give him the satisfaction. If she was to die by his blade then she would defy him to the last, refuse to indulge his fantasies, refuse to allow this macabre puppetry of the dead. Curufin stared at her for a while longer, a curious smile on his face. 

“I think you’re lying,” he purred, standing, placing his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look into his mad eyes. “You betrayer of kin…blood traitor!” His voice rose to a wail and then fell low again. “You owed my father your allegiance, you, a are nothing but the fourth born daughter of a third born son.

“Then I most certainly owe nothing to a fifth born son!” Galadriel snarled. The blow that Curufin struck with the palm of his hand against her face caused her hearing to go for a moment, nothing more than a high pitched whistle ringing in her ears.

“I think you’re a lying whore,” Curufin growled. “And do you know what the only thing a whore is good for is?” But Galadriel was distracted, looking over his shoulder. One…two…three…where had the rest of Curufin’s guards gone?

Then, with the sudden gust like a thundercloud breaking upon an open plain, the hall was eclipsed by a blinding flash of silver, silver blades that easily and quickly opened the throats of the three remaining guards, silver mail that glimmered in the dim torchlight…silver hair like a shower of stars… _Celeborn_. Galadriel felt a massive wave of relief wash over her, taking a quick step back, away from Curufin as dual twin blades flew towards him, but her cousin was quicker, pivoting, pulling her in front of him like a shield as his hand wrapped tightly around her throat. 

Celeborn’s knives stopped a hair’s breadth from her face as she met his startled gaze, both of them wide-eyed, panting, she with fear and he with the exertion it had taken to halt his blow. “Pity,” Curufin laughed, speaking to Celeborn as he pulled her backwards against him even more tightly, his breath hot against her ear. “I assure you I would have had the greatest sympathy for you had you slain her.” His hand was closing tightly about her throat and Galadriel gasped for air. _If only she could get to the knife in her pocket, if only_ … With the guards dead now she could do it. She was close enough to him, close enough that she could deal a fatal blow, but she mustn’t let him catch on to what she was doing.

“I knew you were lying,” she tried to say, but her voice was nothing more than a croak. 

“I was beginning to wonder when you’d show yourself, Celeborn. Here at last…here at last,” Curufin purred, his voice low and quick with excitement. “I knew if I took her that you would follow. I knew you were watching. I can feel you…always feel you,” he said to Celeborn. “Impressive knife work, I must say. Your true nature is baring itself at last, Sinda. But we’re all animals, aren’t we…underneath it all? You and I…we’re not so different.”

“We’re nothing alike,” Celeborn said, voice low, eyes burning with intensity as he stepped forward. Something in his eyes was different, and it only took Galadriel a moment to realize that he bore the same look of determination and horror in his gaze that she had felt so keenly on Alqualondë’s docks. In the aftermath, in the cold squalling blizzards of the Helcaraxë she had thought to herself that there must come a time in any life or death struggle, when one abandons oneself to the utmost expense of force and strength, ignoring the costs of both body and mind until the struggle is finished. 

She had seen it before in the eyes of women in childbed, and then again on Alqualondë’s docks, and now here…in the eyes of her beloved. She knew by it that he would exert every last modicum of strength if he had to, if that is what it took for them both to survive. And suddenly, though surrounded by death and danger, though her cousin’s hand was choking the life out of her, she felt strangely safe.

“Watch yourself now, Sindarin dog!” Curufin hissed, his voice a keening wail as he tightened his grip on Galadriel’s throat. His fingers were pain, crushing, and she knew she would have a bruise if she survived this. Celeborn took a step back, sheathing his knives. “Do you see that, Artanis? Do you see how he obeys like the dog that he is?” Curufin laughed. “Do you know what I think I’ll do? I think I’ll mount his head on the wall like a stag, replace his eyes with glass ones, no, warg’s eyes. Maybe if you’re good I’ll let you look at him when I let my soldiers take you.”

“What is it that you want? Let us talk,” Celeborn said calmly, holding out his empty hands. “Only name your price and I shall give it to you if you agree to let her go.”

“Lay down your weapons,” Curufin demanded and Celeborn obeyed, unbuckling his quiver and knife belt, laying his axe and bow aside. Galadriel felt a fierce vengeance burning in her heart, _as if Celeborn is any less dangerous without weapons_ , she wanted to scoff at her cousin. “Now step forward,” Curufin demanded, taking a step back, and Galadriel took advantage of the motion to slip her hand into the pocket of her breeches, her fingers resting against the cool bone of her knife’s hilt. Curufin hadn’t noticed. And to think that all those years ago she had told Celeborn he needn’t buy this knife for her. She could feel her heart thundering in her chest as she met Celeborn’s eyes, trying to tell him that she needed some distraction.

“And now, what is it you want?” Celeborn asked, his eyes shifting to Curufin’s. Galadriel hoped they would hurry because she hadn’t much air left and already she was growing light-headed, losing feeling in her limbs. 

“A lock of your hair,” Curufin murmured. “I let her go and, in return, you give me a lock of your hair.” The world was beginning to darken, everything appearing before her eyes as flickering pricks of light, the world fading. 

“And why?” Celeborn asked, seeming curious.

“Because I haven’t one,” Curufin replied. “My father did. He always carried it with him, a lock of his mother’s hair, silver as the stars. It was his most treasured possession, the one thing he had to remember him by, but it burned along with him. ”

“And you will let her go? You will promise me that she leaves her alive and unharmed?” Celeborn asked, his eyes fixed on Curufin’s.

“I swear it on my father’s name,” Curufin said, keening desperation in his voice.  
“Then I am yours,” Celeborn said, holding out his arms. “Come and take what you will.” Then Curufin slowly released her and stepped forward, reaching for Celeborn’s hair, his hands moving to cradle the Sinda’s face almost lovingly.

“I could have been something you know,” he whispered, his eyes flickering to Celeborn’s. “I could have been something like you…” A strange smile lit his face, a genuine one, his eyes looking into the beyond, as if he had been transported out of this world and into some other one, far away from blood, and danger, and death. 

Taking a great gasping breath, Galadriel pulled her knife from her pocket and, in one swift movement, drove the blade firmly into his lower back. Curufin twitched, a hoarse cry of surprise starting from his lips that was silenced as Celeborn reached out, taking his head between his hands, and twisted, breaking his neck with a loud crack. 

For a moment still he stayed upright and then he fell, the lifeless dead fingers slipping from the silver hair in which they had been twined, the copper eyes staring into nothingness, his body crumpling to the ground, motionless. But, for a moment, as she stood shaking, holding the bloody knife in her hand, Galadriel almost imagined that this would be just one more of his jokes, that somehow, impossibly, he would rise, grinning that horrifying grin of his, and hew them both down. 

But Celeborn reached out, frantically almost, and pulled her to him, holding her tightly in his arms, too tightly perhaps, his touch rough, but she found comfort in it, comfort in the warmth of him, comfort in the rise and fall of his chest beneath the press of her cheek, her tears falling like a river to wash away the blood that coated his armor as she drew in great, gasping breaths. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I misjudge the distance…nearly killed you. I’ve been fighting for so many long hours now that my aim is not what it once was. And the bond, I knew you were trying to reach me for it but I couldn’t reveal myself to you until the proper time, couldn’t risk that he might catch on.”

“I haven’t a care in the world for that,” she replied, “only that you are alive.” She could feel his hands trembling as he wound his fingers in her hair, pressed her tight against him. There was some desperate and wild longing in the way he held her. “I thought you had been killed,” she choked out, great sobs wracking her body now, causing her to shiver violently.

“I thought I would be,” Celeborn gasped and he pulled her against him even tighter, rocking her back and forth in the cradle of his arms. “Valar, I thought I would be,” the second time he whispered it and she felt the dampness of his tears against her hair. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “I love you, Galadriel. In Ilúvatar’s name I love you.” Three times he said it, an echo of a marriage vow that had been sworn and then broken.

“I know, Celeborn, I know,” she whispered, knowing it was what he needed to hear, but his words struck a dread chill into his heart, for it was not like him to voice such sentiments and she knew by it that he had indeed been in grave peril. 

They held each other in that silent embrace for a moment and then in a gruff voice Celeborn said, “we should be going.” It reminded her of what she had momentarily forgotten in her overwhelming relief at finding her alive: they were far from safe. He stepped back from her, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes, and cleared his throat. 

“Where were you hidden?” Galadriel asked.

“I hid in the trees near the gates,” he told her. “I thought to wait until the six of them were all in one place and then to kill them all at once.”

“Then you saw all of it?” She asked.

“Yes,” he told her, his hands trembling as he held hers. “Yes I saw all of it. You were so brave, Galadriel, so brave.”

“I only wish there had been some way…” she began.

“She knew what would happen,” Celeborn replied, smoothing her hair back from her face. “She knew the price she would pay and she made the sacrifice for Doriath’s sake, for all of our sakes.” Galadriel nodded, understanding it was so, even if her heart could not yet accept it.

“Is there no other way out?” She asked, her voice trembling with fear. Now their escape seemed so close at hand, and yet the near proximity of it made the possibility of being discovered all the more frightening, as if hope were being dangled just before their faces but could so easily be snatched away in an instant.

“No, just the one way,” he told her. He paused, uncertain, as if he was afraid to ask. “Galathil…” he began but, unable to find the words, fell silent.

“I do not know,” she told him, the familiar ache waking in her heart as she remembered Finrod, and Aegnor, and Angrod. Celeborn was silent for a moment before he nodded in decision.

“Then let us go,” he said. “We haven’t any time to lose.” She nodded, gathering her resolution about her like a cloak, and then they were slowly making their way through the darkened corridors, stepping over bodies, sensitive to even the slightest sounds that reached their ears. More than once they ducked into a deserted corridor only to see a confused mouse scurry by. “We must return to my quarters,” Celeborn whispered. “We’ll never survive in the wild with no food and no warm clothes.”

Fortunately they were not far from the royal district, but the journey was harrowing, and they were nearly there when a troop of soldiers rounded the opposite corner, causing them to duck into an alcove, holding one another close, holding even their breath so that they would not be discovered. The soldiers passed so near that Galadriel could have reached out and touched them and, when they were gone, they peered out very carefully, making sure that the corridor was completely clear before they continued on their journey.

When at last they managed to reach Celeborn’s rooms they entered with blades drawn, half expecting to find soldiers waiting for them, but the rooms were empty and silent. “Hurry,” Celeborn whispered once they were sure that all was clear, and then they busied themselves with changing into winter clothes and cloaks, filling rucksacks with dried bear meat and blankets. Galadriel withdrew the crumpled packet of lembas that Paniel had given her from her pocket and stuffed it into the bag before closing it and strapping on her knife belt, quiver, and bow. Nervous, she stood, slinging the pack over her shoulder and gripping her spear tightly.

“Just one more thing,” Celeborn said quietly before he disappeared down the corridor to the greenhouse. He returned a moment later bearing a handful of seeds. “Do you have something?” He asked, his eyes, full of sorrow, looking up at hers.

“Yes,” she breathed, hurriedly emptying a little jewelry box, casting the diamonds aside and offering it to him. He dumped the contents of his palm into the box and Galadriel flicked the clasp closed before she stowed it securely away in her pack. “They will grow,” she said, taking his hands in hers and he nodded, drawing her close, brushing his thumb across her cheek as he turned her face up towards him.

“Once for luck?” He asked her softly, eyes questioning, but Galadriel had already brought her lips to his, drinking deep the taste of him, of life and hope, feeling the world about her grow as if it were itself some woodland pine, branches reaching up to the heavens, as if the stars themselves were spring blossoms opening to new life. His lips were warm, and firm, and impatient against hers, his hands trembling at her waist with the passion suppressed so common to men in battle and she knew that no matter how many times she kissed him it would never, never, never be enough. She would never be satisfied, would always be left wanting, and it made the longing all the more sweet and all the more bitter, the longing that had been woven into her life from the start, that had led her here to middle earth, filled with impossible desires, that had led her here to him, this impossible love, and that had bound them together inextricably, one to the other, with bonds that ran deeper than the foundations of Arda.

“There is no use fighting it, Galadriel,” he said when they pulled apart at last, breathing hard. “Fate itself cannot separate us. I suppose everyone else will have no choice but to grow used to it.” And she thought for an instant that, even amidst all this sadness, she had seen the ghost of a wry grin flit across his lips.

“Yes they must,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his once more. They drew apart, still in awe of each other, hands trembling not with fear now, but with determination. 

“I’ve lived in these caves nearly my whole life,” Celeborn whispered, his eyes filled with conviction as he met her gaze. “I know them better than anyone and I _will_ get us out of here, Galadriel, I swear it to you.” 

“I know,” she said, taking his hand and, walking together down the corridor, they made their way out into the halls. The torches had burned down, casting eerie shadows about the maze-like corridors, illuminating pools of thick, black, congealing blood and corpses gone stiff, their unseeing eyes gazing up at a ceiling that had once reflected the night sky. It had only been a few years ago that the magic of Menegroth had still been thriving, but now it seemed like a lifetime had come and gone.

These halls of wonder had once enchanted her, but now they seemed like a trap as they slowly made their way through them. For some time they were able to move quickly, for no others were present, but suddenly she felt Celeborn’s arm grasp hers, pulling her into a deserted corridor. He flattened himself against the wall, blending effortlessly into the shadows, and Galadriel followed his lead, breathing shallowly as a group of the Feanorian soldiers ran by in the intersecting corridor ahead, their armor echoing strangely in the silent halls. They waited in the shadows with baited breath before Celeborn slowly inched forward and checked the corridor, motioned to her that it was clear and they turned into the intersecting lane. 

But Galadriel’s breath caught in her throat as she heard voices and running footsteps from behind them and, heart pounding, she pulled Celeborn back into the corridor from which they had just come. “Don’t be sparing!” She heard a soldier cry in Quenya and the acrid stench of strong oil burned at her nostrils.

“They’re coming this way!” She hissed, and indeed they were. A dark haired elf rounded the corner and plunged into Celeborn’s knife, looking down as it sank deep into his gut. The second found his end upon the razor sharp edge of her spear as Galadriel brought it slashing across his chest. Celeborn bent, wiping his knife on the dead elf’s clothes and returned it to his belt. Then, with an ease that did not signify the weight of the weapon, he took his great battle axe from his back just as two more soldiers rounded the corner.

He quickly parried the sword of one and countered, to no avail, before he turned to block the thrust of the other. The elf opened his mouth to shout for reinforcements but Galadriel silenced him by severing his neck. The axe flashed through the air again and Celeborn brought the butt of it into the stomach of the other elf, knocking the wind out of him. But the dark haired elf wrenched the axe from the Sinda’s grip and sent it skittering across the floor. Grabbing Celeborn by the neck, he threw the silver haired elf to the ground and punched him squarely in the head. 

Celeborn grabbed the Noldo by the tunic and twisted, trying to wrench free of the grasp in which he was caught and the Noldo struggled to reach a knife tucked into his belt but Celeborn caught his arm and rolled him over, pinning him. His hands went to the Noldo’s throat, choking the air out of him. His face turned red as he gasped for air, struggling to pull Celeborn’s hands from his throat, but Celeborn was bigger, stronger, more accustomed to fighting, and he slowly choked the life out of the dark haired elf until body went limp as Galadriel skewered the last of the soldiers upon her golden spear.

“Oil,” she gasped as Celeborn stumbled to his feet. “Oil, Celeborn. They mean to burn us out.”

“We’re not far,” he gasped, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the skirmish. “We must hurry.” They darted down the silent corridor, staying in the shadows, and there they were before them, the massive trees of the great hall. Galadriel breathed a sigh of relief as they flattened themselves against the wall.

“Keep a watch out behind,” she whispered as she peered around the corner. They were so close now, so very close, but she hardly dared to imagine that escape was possible, hardly dared to put her faith in happiness that could so easily be snatched away.

“What do you see?” Celeborn asked her.

“Maedhros and Maglor,” she whispered. “I don’t know where the youngest is…but they must have found Curufin’s body by now, and I haven’t the faintest clue what has become of Celegorm and Caranthir.”

“Dead by Dior’s hand, or so I heard,” Celeborn whispered. Galadriel swallowed hard, feeling as if her entire body was far too hot, sweat running down her back though it was the dead of winter.

“There’s more guards now than when I was here earlier,” she said. There were far more in fact, nearly a whole army, and she could not fathom how it would be possible to get past them. 

“We need only get into the trees for now,” Celeborn said, seeming to have sensed her thoughts, and she nodded. The trees weren’t far…they had only to wait until no one was looking and then…

“Now!” She hissed, darting from the passageway to sprint madly towards the massive stone pillars. Celeborn overtook her, reaching them first, pulling himself by handholds so small that no inexperienced climber could ever hope to scale the massive tree. Galadriel followed behind him but, even with all the training he had given her, she was not as adept as him and he had to reach down periodically to pull her up. She had never climbed this high before in the stone trees of Menegroth and they really seemed as interminable as they looked. By the time they reached the leaves, the people below looked as small as ants and Galadriel breathed a sigh of relief as she realized that they had not been noticed.

They continued up the bole, slower now that they were afforded the cover of the foliage and Galadriel could not help but notice how realistic the leaves looked, even this close, how they almost seemed to move. At last they reached the top and still the ceiling of the cave was so high above that it was as dark as the night sky, equally as far away. They crept from tree to tree, slowly moving closer and closer to the gates, stopping when they could see them, their hearts sinking as they saw what stood in the mouth of the cave: a phalanx of golden-mailed soldiers bearing Maedhros’s banner. They waited there in silence; there were no words that needed to be said, no words that could assuage the suffocation of hope. The gates were too heavily guarded; escape was impossible.

*****

**Notes:** One. More. Chapter. Left! 


	39. Exodus

  
**Exodus**  
In Cavern’s Shade: 39th Chapter

*****

"What is life?  
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass  
and loses itself in the sunset."

_\- Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior_

 

*****

**Author’s note:** This last chapter is for my best friend, who has always been an inspiration to me and who kindly lets me talk her ear off about elves.

Enjoy.

*****

“How many days do you think it has been?” Celeborn whispered as the morning sun began to filter, white and sterile, through the open gates of the city. The Noldor were still busy below, collecting bodies and piling them into heaps. Galadriel supposed that the both of them ought to have been surprised at just how many had been slain, thousands, tens of thousands, and these were only the ones who had fallen in the entry. There were far more bodies below in the depths of the caverns.

“I…I haven’t any idea,” Galadriel told him and it was the truth. It was as if her sense of time had simply slipped away and she did not know how many hours had passed while they hid in the depths of the caverns, nor how long it had taken her and Celeborn to find their way back out, nor how many long hours they had been sitting here in the tops of the trees devising futile plans to slip past her cousins’ guards. 

Another and unexpected enemy had fallen upon them: their own minds. It felt as though all their horror, all their desperation they had kept at bay because circumstances had forced them to but now, sitting up here with nothing to occupy their minds or their bodies, it infiltrated their thoughts like a poison, driving them mad. She licked her dry lips, trying to steady the trembling of her hands. It wasn’t until they had been sitting up here that the both of them had realized how very long they must have gone without food and water.

Celeborn was evidently thinking the same thing and pulled a bit of dried deer meat from his pack, offering her half of it. She ate it gratefully, though she could tell from the taste it was rather old, and felt the gnawing pain in her stomach abate just a little bit. But now that the hunger pangs were gone, the sharp throbbing pain of the blossoming bruises on her cheek from where Curufin had hit her, as well as the swollen bruising on her neck began to distract her.

Celeborn was impatient, pulling at loose threads on his tunic, his pack, his cloak, his jaw set in that manner it always was when he was growing frustrated with waiting. “Maybe if we…” he started, pausing, thinking for a moment before shaking his silver head. “No, nevermind,” he finished, tension filling the air between them. Galadriel felt it too and reached out, taking his hand in hers. They couldn’t allow the desperation to turn them on each other, not now.

“They’re going to burn the bodies,” she murmured, “in case the orcs come after.”

“And here I was wondering if the hunger would kill us. Appears it shall be fire and smoke,” Celeborn said curtly. 

“Celeborn…” Galadriel said, her tone displeased, and she heard him sigh, felt him squeeze her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, silver brows still set in a frown. “But I must get out of here before I go mad.”

“Perhaps when they begin to burn the bodies…” she started, realizing it was a foolish plan before she had even finished her sentence. “We need a distraction. Perhaps I could…Maedhros might not be so angry with me…”

“Whatever we do we do together,” Celeborn said, turning suddenly fierce eyes upon her, his grip on her hand tightening. “If we escape it is together. If we die it is together. I’ll not have you sacrificing yourself for my sake. Do you understand?”

“I…” she paused, startled that Celeborn had commanded her.

“Do you understand?” He repeated, his gaze fixed on hers, unflinching.

“Yes, yes I understand,” she replied, closing her eyes as he drew her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“We _will_ escape this,” he whispered into her ear as he held her. “I don’t know how but I swear that we shall.”

A sudden rustling sound met their ears, not so far away, and Celeborn drew his knife with lightning speed as Galadriel crouched in the treetops, feeling her heart thundering in her chest, her trembling fingers gripping the wooden hilt of the knives at her waist. “A squirrel?” She whispered, hoping for the best.

“No, too small,” Celeborn replied, his words so soft they were barely a breath, his eyes keen, scanning the treetops.

“Someone was here. They know we’re here.” Galadriel gasped, trying to push down her growing panic, feeling nausea overwhelm her as she looked down and saw that Maedhros and Maglor had entered the hall again, standing together below, debating something in raised voices.

Celeborn closed his eyes, a sudden shiver running through his body. “I can’t listen to it…” he stammered. “I can’t.” He looked as though he were about to be sick and she realized that it was the sound of Quenya that had upset him. 

“Celeborn!” She hissed, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t let them hurt you, I won’t! You must stay with me!” Her heart was beating so fast that she thought for certain it would burst.

“They knew we were here all along and only planned to kill us at the proper time.” Celeborn gasped, his mind jumping to wild conclusions, and Galadriel felt that she too had gone mad, her thoughts running wildly in her skull like a mouse trapped in a hot cauldron.

But then…then she saw the flash of dark hair…a familiar form darting across the treetops, a sword buckled about his waist, leaping now downwards to where her two cousins were standing. “Oh no…oh no, no, no,” she gasped, shaking her head.

“Galathil,” Celeborn gasped, his face as white as the winter snow. “No,” he said, “no.” The word was nothing but a strangled gasp. But Galadriel saw what was happening, how the Feanorians had already been alerted to the presence of another, how they cried out in surprise as Galathil drew his sword and Maglor parried his blow, how the guards at the gates had flown into a frenzied panic at the unexpected intruder, their duty forgotten as they abandoned their posts at the gate, leaving it completely unguarded.

“NO!” Celeborn shouted, a strangled cry, surging forward, and as Galadriel collided with him, wrapping her arms about him, she realized that she sometimes forgot how very strong he was. It felt as though a charging bull had knocked the air out of her and she wheezed, struggling to regain her breath as she worked with all of the force in her body to restrain him. It was just barely enough.

“No! Celeborn! Listen to me!” She cried, and she took her beloved’s face in her hands, forcing him to look her full in the eyes. His body was trembling, shaking uncontrollably, his breaths coming short and violently through his nose, his eyes had gone somewhere else, somewhere beyond. “Celeborn. Celeborn return to me,” Galadriel commanded him. “Celeborn it is done and you cannot change it. This is Galathil’s choice, his free will. Listen to me. Can you hear me? Celeborn?” His hand came up to take hers and she knew he had returned to her. “Celeborn, you have no choice but to accept this gift. Perhaps some have managed to escape. They need you Celeborn. Galathil knows this.”

“He is my brother,” Celeborn replied, his voice weak, choked, and already there were tears running down his cheeks.

“I know, “ she said, the vulnerability evident in her voice, trying to communicate through the tone of her voice and through the depths of the emotions that linked them together that she, more than any other, knew the pain of a brother’s sacrifice.

“Celeborn, we have to go _now_!” She implored him. “If we do not then his sacrifice will be for nothing. He does this for love, for love of you! Honor that love with your life, not your death!”

Celeborn was still for a moment and then he was climbing down from the trees as swiftly as he was able, more swiftly than was prudent, dragging her with him, jumping the last few meters to the ground. A few long strides and they were free, past the gates, the sound of swords still ringing in their ears as they made their way out into the bitter winds that whipped about their ears, covering them in gusts of snow.

They were running, running towards the tree line, hearts thundering, and when Galadriel reached the trees she looked back, but Celeborn had not followed her. Instead, he stood before the gates, watching, his face expressionless. Galadriel felt her heart catch in her throat at the fear that he would join the fray, but the sudden panic abated when he turned and ran towards her, unfollowed.

“I had to know,” he gasped as he approached, tears frozen in his eyes. “I had know the moment he fell.”

“Which one of them did it?” Galadriel said, her voice bitter with pain, tears falling like rain from her eyes now.

“Maglor,” Celeborn choked, and for a moment they held each other tight, breathing hard, before they set themselves to the task before them. The snow was picking up as they neared the fringe of the forest, frigid gusts blowing cold snowflakes and pellets of ice into her face. Galadriel could already feel ice forming on her eyelashes, in her eyebrows, freezing the tears on her cheeks.

She grasped hold of the low-hanging branches of a tree as she reached it, pulling herself up, but the bare wood was icy and she struggled, losing her footing for a brief instant, boots scraping at the cold bark, feeling the catch of her own breath as she anticipated falling, but a moment later she had found a foothold and scrambled up into the lower branches. She grasped for the next branch and felt the whistle that signified an arrow blow by her cheek as the iron point embedded itself in the trunk of the tree next to her face. They were shooting to kill. Of course they were. The thought should not have surprised her, not after Alqualonde, not after what she had witnessed in Menegroth, but she was still startled by it.

“They’re coming,” she heard Celeborn murmur and nodded in reply, pulling herself up onto the next branch, more careful now, more accustomed to the slippery climb. She heard a grunt below her and looked down to see Celeborn, an arrow protruding from his left shoulder. There were shouts coming now from the gates of Menegroth and the baying of hounds, Celegorm’s dogs, pursuing them, avenging their master’s death. They would have to run in the trees; they could not outrun dogs on the ground.

Despite his wound, Celeborn was climbing faster than she, the product of many long years of acquaintance with these forests. He pushed her up to the next branch and then followed himself until they were as high as they could go. Still arrows whistled past them, though the flurry of snow obscured the marksmen’s aim. Galadriel looked down, seeing the naked black branches of the trees coated with treacherous ice, the dogs beginning to sniff around the bole of the tall beech. _They’ll tear us to pieces_ , she thought, imagining the hounds’ sharp teeth, her heart pounding. 

She tried to calm herself, to put such thoughts away, but she could not fathom how they could outrun their pursuers in these conditions. It would be slow and perilous going through the treetops, a slip meaning certain death. All the hunters had to do was stalk them from below, waiting.

“Two little lovebirds up a tree!” She heard the laugh of one of the soldiers. Somebody nocked an arrow and she heard the creak of a bow being drawn back. Celeborn grabbed her, arm tight around her waist, and she found herself dangling, suspended in the air next to him. The arrow whistled by where she had been standing only seconds earlier.

Celeborn set her back on the branch and pushed her forward, across the narrow bridge of limbs into the next tree. The black bare bark was slippery with ice and she felt a burst of terror as she crossed it followed by a miniscule amount of relief as, hands trembling, she clutched at the tree trunk upon reaching it. Celeborn followed and they both ducked as another hail of arrows blew past them.

She saw Celeborn’s lips moving, whispering some incantation it seemed, and all of a sudden the wind reversed directions, blowing strongly away, placing their pursuers upwind of them, the snow gusting so heavily that she could hardly see Celeborn now though he stood right beside her. The wind was now carrying their scent away from the dogs, the snow obscuring the hunters’ view, but it also made things more dangerous for them up here in the canopy.

“We have to continue on this way,” Celeborn said, his mouth pressed right against her ear so she could hear him. “It is the only way.”

“Your shoulder,” she said, worried. 

“We’ll leave it for now,” he told her, “take it out once we put some distance between them and us.” She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Go carefully,” he instructed. “In the blizzard we can put some distance between them and us.”

“Yes,” she said, “but where to?”

“Southwest,” he said, “towards the Mouths of Sirion. That will be where the people have headed, where Círdan is.” She nodded stiffly again. “If I fall keep going, do you understand?” He asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I understand.” Then she felt his hands on her back again, pushing her over the network of branches from one tree to the next, her boots crunching over the slippery ice. Were this the summer and they not being pursued by those intent on their murder, this sort of handholding would have irritated her, would have made her cross with him for babying her. But the proximity of fatal danger now made her feel as if she were incompetent, as if she were slowing Celeborn down; if he didn’t have to worry about her perhaps he could have escaped easily.

Her thoughts were cut short by a sharp intake of air and she turned behind her, instinct taking over as her hand caught Celeborn’s as he plunged from the branch that had held him. Celeborn was heavy and she hissed at the pain of his entire weight suspended from her arm, clutching as tightly as she could to the trunk of the tree so that they would not both fall, trembling with the effort of bearing his full weight.

Celeborn hung for a moment, clearly in pain from the arrow wound in his shoulder, his left shoulder, his left arm being the one she had grabbed to arrest his fall. But his right arm was uninjured and he grasped at the tree branch, making sure his fingers had found secure purchase before, with her help, he hauled himself back up into the tree. He was trembling, she noted, panting, and then she knew that their survival depended as much upon her as upon him.

“Thank you,” he gasped quietly and she nodded numbly, still terrified by what had just happened. _What else would I have done?_ She thought. But she knew that this was not the thanks of a man towards someone who had done him some superfluous kindness, but the gratitude of someone who knows his life depends upon another.

“Of course,” she said, swallowing hard. Then they were off again, slow and measured steps through the tops of the trees for hours upon hours until the sky began to blacken. When the snow and wind abated they could see no one below them and no sign of the dogs, but neither of them doubted that they were being pursued and so they wordlessly continued on in their slow and dangerous trek.

With the darkness came the cold, bitter even for elves, and Galadriel could feel her fingers growing stiff. It was that stiffness that caused her to misjudge her grip and, in an instant in which she felt her stomach lurch, she felt herself slip from the branch, the side of her head smashing against the cold bark of the tree as she plunged towards certain death, but Celeborn had caught her, his arm wrapped securely around her torso beneath her underarms, and he hauled her back up into the branches. It was a sickening feeling to have almost fallen and she spent a moment recuperating, wishing more than anything that they could run with solid ground below them, but she knew in this snow they would leave tracks, tracks that could be followed by her cousins’ soldiers.

“We’re almost there,” Celeborn said in assurance, “almost to where we’ll turn west.” Then they’d be out of the forest and onto the plains. Crossing the Andram would take them south to Círdan, to civilization, to hearty food and hot baths, and most importantly, to safety. Galadriel nodded. 

The coming of dawn had thawed the ice somewhat and they found that they were able to move more swiftly through the bare forest canopy. Still there were no further signs of their pursuers but the threat was ever present. She knew what her cousins thought. She knew they believed that either she or Celeborn had the Silmaril. They would not give up so easily, not with the blood of so many thousands already staining their swords. They would have thought of something.

And, as they approached that place where they had planned on turning westward, they saw with horror what had been done. First they smelt it, the faintness of smoke on the wind, and then they saw that the forest of Neldoreth was ablaze with red flames that reached upwards in a fierce conflagration to the black curtain of smoke that hung over the forest. Snow had not fallen on western Doriath and in the dryness of winter the forest had made quick kindling. It would have been an easy matter for her cousins to light this fire near Menegroth. In the matter of a split second it would have swallowed the dry trees and branches, spreading southward at a furious pace to engulf the entire forest.

Galadriel watched it burning, hope withering in her heart. This would have been the last place they could cross the Sirion before the waters became too turbulent and dangerous. But now a wall of flame prevented their passage, blocked them from reaching Círdan, from reaching safety. Celeborn was watching silently, his face grim, and she new that he could hear the cries of the trees as they burned, that he knew as well as she that now their plan was futile. And when the snow melted here, when the trees dried, would they light this forest aflame too, smoke them out? 

“They’re trying to burn out any survivors,” Celeborn said. “They must be searching for the Silmaril but if this is their solution then they truly have grown desperate. Any able bodied elves would be long gone from the forests by now.”

“And if they burn this forest then what shall we do?” Galadriel asked.

“The wood on this side of the river is too wet, too damp from the snow,” Celeborn said. “They cannot light it aflame, not yet.” 

“What do we do?” She asked, heart trembling. “If we go over the mountains into the east…” Celeborn shook his head, vetoing her suggestion. “If we go back is there a place we can cross the river?” She tried again.

“Too dangerous,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the far-away fire. “Maedhros has an army to the east, or he may have, and Bauglir’s creatures swarm that land. There may still be dwarves there besides. And we cannot risk going back. I am certain they must still be pursuing us, even if we cannot see them, and they will have the advantage of horses to lend them speed. They could easily overtake us if we were to leave the trees and try to cross the river or they could flank both banks of the river and simply wait for us to drown or freeze in the Sirion.”

She had known there was no hope in it before she had even suggested it and yet it was the only plan she had been able to conjure. But what was left now that they could not cross the Sirion to the west or the mountains to the east? Would they run to the sea and wait there until her cousins’s soldiers arrived to kill them? Perhaps there was some way they could ford the Sirion. But even as she thought it she knew the river below this juncture was too violent to ford even with a strong boat, and they had no boat. Besides, this time of year it would be choked with ice and with the trunks of fallen dead trees whose rotten trunks had cracked and tumbled into the river under the weight of ice and snow.

“Nan-Tathren,” Celeborn said shortly, then nodded, repeating himself. “Nan-Tathren.” He seemed relieved, as if his mind had struggled for an answer and found it. “There are two forests to the south that we can reach,” he said, his mind working quickly now as he turned towards her. “Taur-im-Duinath is by far the bigger of the two and it would be easy to hide there safely for centuries, but that is because no one in their right mind would ever dare enter it. It is overrun by Bauglir’s creatures: vampires some say, wargs…orcs. _Yrch_. The guttural Sindarin word was just as ugly as the creatures it represented.

“Nan-Tathren is small,” he said, “and divided by the Sirion and the Narog, with a branch on the east of the Sirion and the west of the Narog, the majority of the forest on the stretch of land between the two rivers, but we can take shelter in the woods on the eastern bank of the Sirion I think, if it is safe there.”

“What is to prevent them from flushing us out of that forest as well?” Galadriel asked.

“The Onodrim, Treebeard,” Celeborn said. “I am not certain they are still there. They may have moved eastward over the mountains, but the last I heard they were living in Nan-Tathren after they fought the dwarves after Thingol’s murder.”

“And if they’re not there?” Galadriel asked, too mired in the events of the past few days to believe that fortune would be with them.

“We had better hope they are there,” Celeborn said, his eyes grim. Neither of them wanted to consider the alternatives. By the early afternoon the snow and ice had returned with a vengeance, making the going excruciatingly slow once more, but by this time they had grown fairly accustomed to the icy branches and treacherous terrain, making slips far less frequent. 

At dawn on the fourth day since they had set out they could hear the roar of the water at the Fens of Sirion to the west and by dusk they had made their way to the edge of the Forest of Region where it skirted the River Aros. “We’ll have to wait until morning,” Celeborn said and Galadriel nodded, feeling for the bit of flint in the belt at her waist. The river was icy cold and if they did not dry themselves immediately after fording it they would almost certainly freeze to death. Lighting a fire at night would attract far too much attention. 

They spent the next few hours circling back eastward along the river, searching for a place to cross. It took them out of their way, making the trek to the Andram longer than it would have been had they been able to cross near the fens, but the river was far too wide and the current too fast-moving to cross there. At last they found a spot that seemed suitable, where the river narrowed and the water was quite still.

There were still a few hours until dawn and Celeborn bid Galadriel sleep but she passed the hours fitfully, waking to a sort of half-consciousness every now and again, watching Celeborn through sleep-blurred eyes. Despite how tired he must be after not having slept for nearly a week, he was unusually alert, his fingers slipping back every now and then to grasp what she knew must be the hilt of his dagger hidden beneath his cloak.

An hour or so before dawn she had awoken and bid him sleep but he refused with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t be able,” he said, “even if I wanted.” They were both conscious, it seemed, of the gnawing of hunger in the pits of their empty stomachs and presently Celeborn removed a square of lembas from his pack, breaking it in half and then breaking the halves into quarters. He handed her one and, having eaten it, she found her stomach felt full again. Her heart, however, felt emptier, perhaps because it had reminded her that this was the last lembas Doriath’s kitchens would ever produce.

She watched the way he ate with rapt fascination, the way he brushed the crumbs from his fingers, perhaps because now even such simple movements of life seemed such a wonder to her after the deluge of death. “Galadriel,” he turned to her, grave concern in his eyes, moving as close as he could before he reached out, fingers gently brushing over the skin of her neck. The pain was dull and throbbing, even the gentle touch of his fingers eliciting a startled gasp from her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Is it bad?” She asked, noting how her own voice was still hoarse. He nodded.

“The bruise is nearly black,” he said, his voice soft. “The imprint of his fingers…” he stopped speaking, taking a deep breath, and Galadriel could feel the anger churning in his heart. Gently he turned her face to the side, his eyes evaluating the livid green bruise that had erupted on the side of her face from where she had been hit not once, but twice. 

“When he hit you I…” Celeborn took a deep breath, his lips disappearing into a thin line, his eyes glinting with a sudden fire that threatened to erupt into full flame.

“He is dead, Celeborn,” she whispered, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. “He is dead and he can harm us no more.”

“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” Celeborn asked her and she shook her head.

“Only my face, just my face,” she replied.

“He wanted to shame you,” Celeborn said, his voice low.

“But I will grow beautiful again while his bones molder in the ground,” she said, conjuring a small, forced smile. Celeborn drew her gently into his arms, his hands in her hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“You are beautiful even now,” he told her, “and you will ever be so to me.”

“You worry for my hurts but not your own,” Galadriel said, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Will you let me remove that now?” She asked, her eyes drifting towards the arrow still embedded in Celeborn’s shoulder. He thought for a moment and then shook his head.

“We would not have time to care for the wound at present,” he said, “and besides, I am used to the pain now, but it might hurt worse if we take it out and then I would not be able to swim the river.” He fell silent and though Galadriel did not like what he had said she understood his reasoning.

When the sun crested the horizon and the mist of morning had dissipated, Celeborn deemed the time appropriate. Climbing down from the trees they had performed one last sweep of the area to ensure that they were not being followed by her cousins or by anything else. Having found they were alone they returned to the riverbank.

“We must be quick about it,” Celeborn said softly. “Even us elves will not last long in such cold waters and not much longer once we’ve reached the far bank if we do not manage to dry ourselves quickly.” Galadriel nodded grimly.

“If you get caught in a current it is futile to swim against it, swim to the side,” Celeborn instructed.

“I know,” Galadriel said. “I was raised among the Teleri.” She hadn’t meant it to sound as if she were snapping at him but the fear and stress of all of this was weighing upon her and she knew that crossing this river would be unpleasant at best, death at worst.

Postponing it would do nothing and so at last, gathering a deep breath, she plunged into the river, hearing the splash of Celeborn leaping in at her side before she was submerged in the murky depths. Her entire body seemed paralyzed for a moment: muscles, bones, limbs, lungs, and a shock ran through her as if a thousand spear points had been driven into her at once. The pain of the icy water enveloping her soaked straight through to the bone. Then she knew that if she did not move she would drown and so, with great pain, she forced her legs and arms to move, kicking towards the surface.

Celeborn had already surfaced beside her and was gasping with the cold of it. She felt his hand reach for hers, grab it, begin to pull her and she kicked, quickly outpacing him. Celeborn may be better in the trees but he was a forest elf and did not have the swimming strength of his Telerin kin. But the current was sucking at them now, not nearly as powerful as it would have been had they been upriver, but strong nonetheless, and the going was slow, or maybe it only seemed slow because of the painful cold of the water. They swam, avoiding the slow-moving ice floes, and then after what seemed an eternity they reached the far bank, scrabbling at the mud and roots that held back the earth with nearly frozen fingers. 

Half climbing, half pulling each other out of the water they tumbled to the grassy bank, the cold air seeming warm compared to the river from which they had just emerged and Celeborn, cursing violently, already had his own flint out, rubbing it against the tangles of grass that lined the bank, trying to dry the stone off. “Kindling!” He spat and Galadriel jerked herself from her frozen numbness, scrambling along the bank to gather together what dry sticks, grass, and leaves she could find. She returned a moment later, building the small branches and kindling into a pile. The flint sparked and Celeborn gasped a sigh of relief. 

“Get out of your clothes,” Galadriel said, remembering the Helcaraxë, remembering that the cold of being soaked in damp clothes would kill far more quickly than the cold of the air. They stripped, he with more trouble because of the arrow, laying their wet clothes beside the fire before huddling together naked before the flames. The fire grew, warming them gradually, steam rising and hissing from their wet clothes as they dried. They were both conscious of their vulnerability, glancing around warily the entire time, but the fire seemed not to have drawn attention. They dressed when their clothes dried, but it took their cloaks a while longer and thus it was nearly noon before they were able to get moving again. 

Still, Celeborn was nervous about the fire and disposed of it as well as he could so that no tracks would be left, dumping the branches and coals into the river and digging a hole in the frozen earth with his knife to hide the scorched grass and ash that marked the site of their impromptu camp. Patting it down, he stood, wiping the soil from the knife on his breeches before sheathing it again. Their packs were still damp but their dry cloaks shielded them. 

The Andram rose before them - a great wall of hills, green and grassy in the summer but brown and dry now that winter was here. Snow had settled on the very tops of them. “How far is Nan-Tathren after we cross the hills?” Galadriel asked as they ran. Her chest felt tight in the cold air of the afternoon. 

“Maybe two day’s journey if we’re quick about it,” Celeborn murmured. Something was bothering him and that made Galadriel nervous but she did not ask. He would tell her when he was ready. Though the sun was high overhead now it didn’t make the barren, frozen plains feel any warmer. The winters in Beleriand were cold and this winter was especially bitter. 

It was not often that elves felt the stress of sleeplessness, hunger, and thirst begin to take their toll upon their immortal bodies, but Galadriel felt the strain now. This marked the fifth day since they had left Menegroth, the fifth day of a strenuous trek across difficult terrain, the fifth day with next to no sleep, little food, no water. And then the battle in Menegroth had raged for she knew not how long but it must be almost exactly a full week now since they had last slept and Galadriel was feeling the effects of it, the way her movements felt sluggish, the heaviness of her eyelids, the slow buzzing of her thoughts like flies in her mind.

But Celeborn seemed intent on pressing forward, though she knew he had gotten even less sleep than she and was wounded besides, the arrow still protruding from his shoulder. But she suspected he was running not so much now from fear of what might kill them as from fear of his own thoughts. If they stopped he would have time to think and he didn’t want to think. She had noticed how exhausted he was as they sat by the fire, how his head had drooped from time to time, how he had fallen into shallow sleep only to jerk awake again moments later. He was as exhausted as she was, more so perhaps.

“Celeborn, we must stop and rest,” she said. “I can go no further.” She knew that he would stop for her sake, that he would never force her to go beyond what she could endure. He stopped running for a brief moment and Galadriel came to a halt by his side, bent double, feeling the ache beginning in her calves.

“We’re being tracked,” Celeborn murmured when she stood again, his green eyes flitting to hers, then out across the plains to the east.

“Tracked?” She gasped, feeling the now-familiar creep of worry grasping at her.

“It must have been the smoke from the fire,” Celeborn said, shaking his head. “Orcs…I think. I can smell them.”

“How far to the Andram?” She asked him.

“Another day,” he told her, shaking his head again. “We’ll have to fight them but let’s do it on our terms not theirs.”

Galadriel nodded. “And how long until they catch up to us?”

“A few hours at most,” Celeborn murmured. “After we…” he paused, wiped an arm across his forehead. The weather was bitter chill but they had both broken out in a sweat from the running. Galadriel could smell the orcs now too, the scent of filth lifted by the breeze. “After we kill them we can rest,” he finished his earlier thought. “We’ll have to kill them, Galadriel, all of them. We can’t risk a scout returning to whatever army they might have come from.”

Galadriel nodded. She knew that of course, but perhaps it was some relief to Celeborn to say it. “Let’s hide then,” she said, “ambush them. It will give us some advantage. Perhaps they don’t know we’ve picked up on them.” Celeborn nodded.

“I think you’re right,” he said then caught Galadriel eyeing his wounded shoulder. “When we rest,” he said, “we should remove it.” She nodded. They searched for a suitable area and settled upon a small rock formation behind which they could hide. Celeborn snapped a branch from a withered juniper that grew nearby and backtracked, sweeping out any tracks they may have left, but they both knew that unless the wind shifted it would carry their scent northwards towards the orcs that were pursuing them.

“They’ll come upon us at dusk,” Celeborn said, cursing, as he returned to huddle by her side beneath the outcropping of rock. It was unfortunate, but better, Galadriel thought, than if they came upon them in the pitch dark of night. She unbundled her spear and her bow from her pack, inspecting her weapons. All there was to do now was wait.

“Do you know how many?” She asked and Celeborn shook his head.

“Hopefully not too many,” he replied.

“You should sleep some,” Galadriel said but he only shook his head again.

“Even if I wanted to I wouldn’t be able,” he said, the same answer as ever, but it was only half an hour more before he had dozed off, his head falling to rest on Galadriel’s shoulder. She sat, vigilant, staring out into the dimming sun of the late afternoon. Celeborn slept fitfully, twitching in his sleep, a frown moving across his face every now and again, but Galadriel was glad that he did not wake. A fitful sleep, even a short one, was better than no sleep at all and Celeborn had not slept in a very long time. Finrod had told her a long time ago that humans could not go more than three days without sleep and that they perished within a week without food, even quicker without water. The thought had left Galadriel pondering the fleeting nature of life and thanking the Valar that they were elves.

When dusk began to draw nigh she woke Celeborn and he started, seeming surprised that he had fallen asleep, but he said nothing of it and only turned to look out over the plain through a crevice in the rock. The orcs were visible now, a small band of hunters numbering seven, but they had a warg with them and wargs were hard to kill and very swift besides.

“We should take the warg out first,” Galadriel whispered and Celeborn nodded, his eyes tracking the motions of the orcs across the plain, the cold wind whipping loose dirt and sand over the sparse grass, watching as they searched his and Galadriel’s footprints.

“It’s not too many,” he said. “Should be easy enough.” But the tone of his voice told a different story, the one Galadriel had already thought of, that it would have been easy had they been well rested, well fed, well watered and in good health. Still, they had the advantage of surprise. The orcs had not yet discovered that they knew they were being tracked.

“They’ll know we’re on to them when they can’t find our tracks anymore, when they get to the spot where I started to brush them out,” Celeborn said and Galadriel nodded. “Then we’ll kill that warg.”

It was a disgusting beast, snout mangled and crushed, teeth showing through gaps in its twisted jaw, sniffing with sensitively attuned nostrils at the ground. They were maybe a half mile off by now but it would not be much longer before they realized that their prey was onto them.

“The wind isn’t changing direction,” Galadriel whispered with a curse. It would carry their scent down to the warg, to the orcs; it would give them less time than they had been planning on. Celeborn cursed as well, a muttered oath that wasn’t Doriathrin or any other dialect of Sindarin that Galadriel knew. He had told her long ago, when they had first started courting, that Doriathrin did not allow for much creativity in the way of cursing and so he preferred to utter his expletives in the varied languages of the green elves or the Avari. 

“They’ll be catching our scent soon,” he said. They both knew that the second they let their arrows fly their element of surprise would be exhausted and so they had to wait for that tenuous moment in which they would have the greatest advantage but before the orcs were aware of their presence. They seemed to have reached the place now where Celeborn had begun to brush out their tracks and the orcs were suitably confused, the tightly grouped party disintegrating as they spread out, searching for the trail they had lost, but the warg raised its head slowly into the air, nostrils working furiously. It would not be long before it caught their scent.

“Now,” Celeborn muttered, bent close to Galadriel. “You take the flank on the left.” Galadriel looked to the left where four of the orcs were spread out, searching for their tracks. “I’ll take the warg and the three with it. Help me when you’ve finished with them.” Galadriel nodded tersely and, almost simultaneously, she and Celeborn nocked their arrows. Galadriel aimed carefully for the nearest orc on the left, a thin-faced creature wearing a helm of hammered iron and carrying a thick, curved sword. The wind slackened, Galadriel breathed out, and then she released the string of the bow. The arrow flew true and fast, striking home into the base of the orc’s neck, in the space between his mail shirt and his helmet, and he crumpled to the ground dead. 

She dared a glance to the right and saw that Celeborn’s arrow had stuck home as well, lodged tight in the warg’s throat. But a single arrow was not enough to fell a warg and it was charging them now, roaring and thrashing so violently that it unseated the orc who had been riding it. Galadriel nocked another arrow, took another breath, and released it. The arrow flew straight but glanced off of the helmet of the second orc she had targeted. 

Their position was clear now that the warg had given them away and she heard Celeborn shouting “go!” The warg was nearly upon them. She ran out from behind the rock, coming almost face to face with the orc she had failed to shoot, and released her third arrow almost directly into the female orc’s face. She died almost instantly, crumpling onto Galadriel, and the elf pushed the orc’s body off of her, throwing her bow back over her quiver and drawing her spear. She wanted more than anything to look to her right, to see if Celeborn was alright, but she knew that would be a foolish and potentially fatal move in this battle. She could still hear the snarls of the warg and that worried her.

Her muscles were slow and sluggish. It felt as though she had to force them to do her bidding, concentrating her entire mind upon the task, and even then her arms were slow to raise her spear. One of the orcs reached her before the other and she parried his thrust with her spear, but she could not put much strength into it and thus she did not manage to counter him as effectively as she had hoped. He was on her again in an instant, raining blow after blow upon her. She blocked them all but it took an unusual level of concentration.

She risked a glance away from the orc she was locked in combat with and saw the other one approaching quickly. She was too exhausted, too weak now to handle both of them at one time. She would have to kill this one before the other was upon her. Perhaps it was that desperation that gave her the burst of energy she needed to duck the blow aimed at her and drive her spear home into the orc’s chest. Blood was just beginning to burble from its grotesque mouth as she kicked the dying body from the blade of her spear and spun to meet the oncoming orc. She could see Celeborn now. He had killed the orc that had fallen from the warg and one of the others, working now on killing the last of his three, but the warg still stood and was making the job difficult for him, dodging and charging and snapping so that the task of killing the remaining orc was made doubly difficult for him.

Galadriel charged forward, taking aim at her last orc and cut with her spear towards the creature’s knees. Her blow missed as, with a shrieking cackle, the orc leapt over the blade and came soaring towards her, scimitar raised to deal her a blow. But Galadriel dropped to her knees, bracing her spear in the earth, blade pointed upward, and before the orc could comprehend her strategy, he found himself landing from his leap, impaled upon her spear. With the weigh of the body, she no longer had the strength to hold her spear upright and it crashed to the ground. 

Knees trembling, Galadriel knelt for a moment, trying to gather the strength to rise, desperately aware that she must, that the warg was still alive. Mustering the strength at last, she stumbled to her feet and drew her spear from the orc’s body. She turned to see that Celeborn had killed the final of his three orcs and was now leaping and dodging out of reach of the warg. Galadriel whistled but the warg paid her no heed, concentrating instead upon what seemed to it to be imminent prey. Celeborn dodged out of the way of its fangs again and Galadriel bent, picking up a fist-sized rock, cradling it in her palm as she rushed forward to within a few yards of the warg, hurling the rock at its face with all her might. 

That had gotten its attention and she dropped her spear as she fled, feeling the gnashing of its teeth mere inches from her back and then, with a wave of massive relief, she heard its heavy body crash to the ground. All had gone silent and she fell, her legs feeling as weak as water, her hands in the dirt, panting hard. She turned, sitting on the ground, and saw Celeborn, looking equally as exhausted, with one leg on the warg’s head, prying his axe loose from its skull. His eyes met hers and he nodded, grateful for the distraction she had risked. 

Following the relief, Galadriel felt a different sensation wash over her then, some strange thing between hopelessness and joy. She wanted nothing more than to hold Celeborn in her arms and to collapse to the earth with him, lying there until they fell asleep and sleeping for as long as they were able. Celeborn trudged towards her, his axe dangling from his good arm, but he carried it as though it were heavier than fate itself.

“By dawn,” he panted, “by dawn we’ll be at the Andram and then we can rest.” It was difficult to summon the strength, even more the resolve, to rise from the ground, but Galadriel did so at last, returning to the place where she had dropped her spear and stooping to pick it up. She and Celeborn wiped the blades of their weapons on the sparse grass and then sheathed them, resuming their trek towards the towering range of hills that stood before them, so near and yet so far.

“Nothing else is following us?” Galadriel asked and Celeborn nodded.

“Nothing else,” he said. The bitter cold winds of deepening night swept across the plains, tugging at their cloaks and their hair, sending chills racing down their spines and freezing them down to the bone. Neither of them had the strength to run any longer so they walked as quickly as they were able. It was difficult to maintain the fast pace and yet the promise of rest and sleep kept them going where they would otherwise have collapsed of exhaustion.

“There should be caves in the hills, and places where the snow has melted or rainwater has run down from the summit,” Celeborn said as the stood at the base of the Andram. It was aptly named, Galadriel noted. It seemed to her an insurmountable wall indeed. They began their ascent slowly, clambering weak-legged over boulders and outcroppings. The sun had begun to rise, casting light into the shadows and Galadriel saw that Celeborn was right. The soil here was sandy and trickling water was making its way through it to puddle in small pools of fresh, clear water. They paused to drink, the water refreshing beyond belief, and Galadriel drank until her stomach ached from it, not having realized how very thirsty she was.

They began to climb again and, after an hour or so, had nearly approached the top of the range. “Find shelter,” Celeborn muttered, almost too tired to voice the words, and they had begun their search, finding at last a small cave in the side of one of the great hills that was more an outcropping of rock surrounded by fallen boulders, but it was adequate shelter both from the elements and from enemies and Galadriel knelt, crawling inside. It was more cramped than it had appeared from outside but pleasant. Here the bitter winds could not reach them and Galadriel turned to give Celeborn a weak smile only to find that he was not there. 

“Celeborn?” She said, feeling a tremor of fear run through her heart, wondering if an orc had followed unseen, and scrambled out of the cave on her hands and knees only to find him sitting there on the ground before the cave, staring at it with eyes gone wide but unfocused, as if his mind were somewhere else. “Celeborn?” She said again, gently, kneeling before him and taking his hands into her own. She recognized that look, the same look she had had after Alqualondë, after the Helcaraxë, on the nights when she had lain abed shaking and Celeborn had comforted her. 

“I can’t…” he swallowed hard. “I can’t go in there.”

“You must,” Galadriel said softly. “But you will not be alone. I will be with you. And it is better in there, out of the cold wind and snow. If you do wish to leave then you will not be trapped in there. I have already been in and it is quite easy to get out.” Celeborn sat in silence for another moment and then nodded stiffly, his hand tight on hers as they slowly crawled in together. Indeed, the cave was not deep at all, so shallow that it was not even dark and the bright light of late afternoon poured in. After a few moments inside, Celeborn calmed down enough that she could use the remaining hours of daylight to remove the arrow from his shoulder at long last.

“Let me see,” Galadriel said, having him turn so that she could sit behind him. His tunic and shirt were torn around the entry wound and she carefully peeled the clothes away, drawing them over the shaft of the arrow. The wound was six days old by now and heavily inflamed and irritated, the surrounding tissue inside the wound a virulent shade of red. The area around the wound had bruised extensively, the skin a nasty mottled mixture of green, yellow, and purple that signified he had bled quite a bit, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped now. Galadriel grimaced at the sight. 

“I don’t think it’s bad,” Celeborn said, his voice sounding unusually weak.

“You left it in so damnably long!” Galadriel said, her voice terse and harsh. She hadn’t meant to snap. After all, there was no reason to worry. The blood had stopped and the arrow had not lodged itself anywhere near a vital organ or artery meaning there was no danger, seeing as Celeborn was an elf and not prone to the infections she had seen in the humans who had flocked to safety in Menegroth’s halls after the breaking of the long peace, but the sight of the wound had still frightened her. 

It had been in so long that the leather that bound the shaft to the tip was probably significantly deteriorated and Galadriel worried the point would break off as she gently turned the shaft, testing to see if the arrow was lodged in bone. Celeborn screamed through clenched teeth, his body trembling, and she quickly released the arrow, grappling for something he could bite down on. She settled at last for her belt, pulling it off and forcing the leather between his teeth before she again reached for the arrow and gently began to turn it while Celeborn shouted muffled obscenities into the leather of the belt. She could feel the point turning with the shaft and breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t hit bone after all. That would make removing it easier and less painful. But just then the bindings gave way and she felt the tip break off inside his muscle.

“Namo’s dogs!” She cursed, finding herself holding just the feathered shaft. Celeborn made a valiant effort to stifle his grunt of pain.

“It’s not in bone at least,” he said around the leather of the belt, breathing heavily.

“No,” Galadriel said, “but you’ll have to lie down. I’ll need to open the wound further to find the point now.”

Celeborn nodded and lowered himself to the ground, lying prone on his front. He was sweating considerably, despite the chill, and Galadriel suspected this was hurting him far more than he was letting on. But her problem now was how to bind and close the wound. It would be better if she could find some way to lessen the pain and swelling caused by the irritation, then he would have better use of his arm. She had noticed how stiffly he carried it, even in battle with the orcs.

“Celeborn, is there athelas growing in these hills?” She asked him and he nodded. 

“Yes, but I don’t like the thought of you going out there alone,” he said, spitting out the leather belt. It was too late. Taking her bow and arrow, Galadriel had already exited the cave, searching in the growing dusk for the familiar herb. She still remembered the first time Melian had taken her into Doriath’s forests in search of it and the queen’s advice that it normally grew near running water in shade. It took her a little while, but athelas was not very rare and after a bit of a search she found it growing in clumps near a rock from which a stream of water was trickling down into a small creek shaded by a sparse growth of cottonwoods.

She took nearly all of it and then wound her way back down the hills to the cave. Celeborn had fallen asleep in her absence but she woke him gently. It would be worse if he jerked awake while she was removing the arrowhead. He opened his eyes groggily. She would have to do this quickly, before nightfall robbed her of what light remained. “Did you find it?” He asked her.

“Yes,” she told him, removing her knife from her belt and untucking her shirt. She tore two strips of linen from the shirt and knotted them together before reaching for her knife. “I’m going to cut now,” she said in warning, pressing the knife against the skin. Celeborn said nothing and he did nothing more than flinch ever so slightly as she made her incision, opening the wound further. He had been in many battles before and been wounded many times so he proved a rather cooperative patient and neither stirred nor cried out as she inserted her fingers into the wound, into the muscle of his shoulder, probing gently for the arrowhead. She found it at last and, grasping it firmly, she gently pulled it out and discarded it. Celeborn breathed a sigh of relief and Galadriel wiped her fingers on her breeches, taking a handful of the athelas and pressing it over the wound, murmuring the words of healing that Melian had taught her. 

It took a little while but gradually the swelling and redness began to subside. Then, slowly, the skin began to close. After a while all that was left was the bruising and an angry red line where the open wound had been. “How is it?” Celeborn asked.

“Closed,” Galadriel said, but you’re badly bruised and I expect this will leave a scar, seeing how long it was left untreated. Celeborn nodded and shrugged, seeming to have forgotten already that his shoulder was wounded. The movement reminded him and he hissed slightly in pain. Galadriel reached out, touching the wound once more, her eyes wandering over his back, over the myriad scars that were already there. _He is a warrior. You know that_. She reminded herself, trying to still her heart’s trembling at the visible reminders of how many times he had been wounded. 

“Well,” she said, trying to sound cheerful, “in the future I’m certainly not going to let you wait so long to have your wounds tended to. It seems you’ve made a habit of it.” Her effort at levity fell on deaf ears; Celeborn had already fallen back asleep. If he had been in fear of having time to think he needn’t have, it seemed he was too exhausted to maintain consciousness. 

Galadriel tried to sit up and keep watch while he slept but it was an unpleasant wakefulness that occupied her. She felt tears brimming in her eyes and reached up to wiped them away, unable to rid herself of the thought of Celeborn’s scars. _They shouldn’t bother me_ , she thought. _After all, they’re old wounds long healed. In fact, they’re proof of his survival._ But she couldn’t help thinking that whatever fate held in store for them, Celeborn would have many more scars before it was through and she would pass many more restless nights wondering whether he was alive or dead. _It is only because we have so recently escaped death that it preoccupies me_ , she thought, taking a deep breath. _I must stay awake, keep guard_ … she thought as she closed her eyes for a moment as evening fell, her eyelids felt like lead.

When Celeborn awoke, Galadriel had fallen fast asleep. She had covered him with his cloak but it slipped off as he sat up and he felt the cool chill of the morning. He had no idea how long they had been asleep. It could have been a day, two days, three. He reached for his shirt and tunic, examining the hole that the arrow had torn in them in the early morning light before pulling them on, noting how much the pain in his shoulder had already subsided, and crouched in the cave, watching Galadriel sleep for a moment, the way her eyelashes fluttered against the skin of her cheek, her lips parted ever so slightly. His eyes flitted over the deep purple bruise in the shape of Curufin’s fingers on her neck, the fainter, greenish-yellow bruises on her cheek from where he had hit her, where her face had collided with the hard bark of the tree when she had fallen, and worry churned at his heart. 

Fastening his cloak about his shoulders, he crept out of the cave into the gathering dawn, making a quick survey of the surrounding land, ensuring that they were alone, unfollowed. There was an outcropping of rock not far from the cave and he climbed onto it, seating himself there. They had camped nearly at the top of the Andram and he could see all of Beleriand spread out below, his heart shuddering as he beheld the black smoke rising from the forest.

Galadriel had awoken and he sensed her presence at his side. She stood, wearing her breeches, boots, and shirt, the morning breeze playing with the collar of the shirt, making it dance over the elegant lines of her collarbone where the sunlight fell, illuminating the line of her shoulder and casting delicate shadows into the hollow of her throat. Her hair was a tangled mass of gold that the breeze lifted and tumbled gently and she pulled her woolen cloak about her shoulders. 

There was something about her, something that had always fascinated him about her, that made him forget everything else but her, even now amidst the death and destruction. She had the beauty of a girl, fine and delicate as porcelain. It reminded him of a tea service Melian had had, the white cups thin as paper so that even light shone through them and the dark tea within was clearly visible. It made you nervous to touch such a thing, afraid that one wrong movement would send the perfect cup shattering to smithereens on the floor below, its beauty lost to eternity. Her beauty had that sort of grace and yet her spirit, stronger than the finest steel shone through so that she stood like a wildflower, beautiful and colorful and wild and tall, hardier than all other blossoms, growing even in the most adverse of conditions, an enigma of loveliness and power.

Galadriel cast her azure eyes out on the scene below them, letting them linger, and Celeborn followed her gaze, hesitating for a moment before he spoke. “Somehow I feel this is the last I shall ever see of her,” he said, staring down to his kingdom where dark plumes of oily smoke rose to roofs of cloud. And, suddenly he felt sad beyond all healing as the pain of it clutched and clawed at his bruised heart and the tears grew slick at the corners of his eyes. 

Galadriel placed a trembling hand upon his shoulder. “I feel sick,” she whispered, her throat choked with tears. Celeborn was silent. 

After a quick breakfast of the little dried deer meat they had brought with them, they continued, the promise of Nan-Tathran and her hoped-for safety lying but two days hence. They descended to the other side of the hills by midday, stopping once more to drink of the water from the streams that trickled down the side of the hills before they continued.

It was warmer on this side of the hills, the blustering northern winds blocked by the Andram and a warm breeze coming up from the southern sea. The air still bore winter’s chill, but it was a milder, pleasant sort, and before long Celeborn began to feel sweat beading down the length of his spine. “Not long now,” he said, as much to encourage himself as Galadriel. Though they had rested for a long while, the weariness refused to leave his bones and he found he was so tired that he hadn’t the energy for thoughts. It was rather a relief, for he feared what his thoughts might turn to, feared the moment when the reality of everything that had happened would come crashing down upon them.

But his whole body was beating now with some pulse of urgency, what strength he had held in reserve now wearing thin, and he had noticed the way that Galadriel’s gait had slowed, noticed the weariness in her that would not succumb to rest. There could be no rest, not truly, not until they were safe, and he longed for safety as he had never longed for anything else in his entire life.

“If you are tired then we can rest tonight,” he told her when they stopped for a moment in the late afternoon to eat, concerned for her well-being despite the urgency that pulled at him, but Galadriel shook her head. 

“No, I would continue and I would know how close are we to Nan-Tathren.” She told him.

“A day or two, depending on how fast we travel.” He told her, taking a bite of lembas. 

“It feels as if even yesterday was an eternity ago,” Galadriel said with a weary sigh. Celeborn looked down at his hands as he ate, noticing how the dry dust of the plains had darkened his skin and slipped beneath his nails. He rubbed at it, smearing the dirt across his knuckles. He knew how she felt, knew it down to his bones, a weariness so deep it felt as though he would never be rid of it. 

He looked up, watching as she broke off a bit of lembas, noted how piercing her eyes looked in a face dulled by the dirt and grime of the journey. And yet for all of it she was beautiful, more beautiful than she had been even the first time he had seen her, more than the evening she had stood and pledged herself to him in betrothal. She had stood by him through all of it as an equal. It would have been enough to break the spirit of anyone, but for her these had been her worst fears – disgrace, exile, bloodshed – and still she stood, strong and enduring. Even now, a prince made homeless and destitute though he was, a man who had nothing to offer her save his heart, she stood by his side.

“You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me before,” she said quietly, a small smile appearing on her face and disappearing just as quickly.

“Just when I think it cannot be possible for me to love you any more…I find that I do,” he replied, voice soft, reaching out to brush his thumb over the elegant ridge of her cheekbone.

“Celeborn,” she whispered, her tone tinged with embarrassment though he had seen the hint of a smile curl her lips again. It was rare that he said such things and it had surprised her. Their eyes met for a moment, like two startled deer come upon each other in the forest, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as her lips trembled from want and then she turned away, her hands quivering as she stuffed the lembas back into her back. “We had…best get on our way,” she murmured and he stood, shouldering his pack once more.

Some tension had awakened between them, no, not awakened; it had been smoldering like a slow fire since the battle had begun – longer – since they had first met. He felt it now, an urgency even more virile than that need for safety, and it too drove him towards Nan Tathren. They said nothing more to each other as they set out again for the forest, but he noticed that her step was quicker, that they both seemed to have shed some of that weariness. His heart was beating like a hammer in his chest, his throat dry, some strange current pulsing through his veins.

They continued, running through the night, and on the second morning since they had crossed the Andram they could at last see, far away, the wall of green that signified a forest and a great relief and hopefulness was awakened in Celeborn’s heart as he beheld Nan-Tathren for the first time. He had hardly dared allow himself to believe that this nightmare might be drawing to a close, that safety was at hand, but now that he saw it his heart leapt at the thought. But the dawn brought no brilliant sunrise. Instead, the horizon roiled with dark storm clouds that thickened as the morning dragged on until the sky opened upon them at last and rain came falling down to the cool earth.

Galadriel stopped, her face tilted up to the sky, wet with raindrops, turning about, arms outstretched as the rain soaked through her clothes, washing the sticky sweat and dust from her body and soaking her hair, cleansing her. She spun faster and faster, in the grip of some manic energy that possessed her body and soul. She looked like a thing gone wild, twisting and turning in the widening gyre, a vortex of power and beauty that took his breath away. 

And whatever was natural in him responded to the siren’s song of her momentary madness, power reaching for power, the earth and sky connected by lightening. He reached out, beginning a movement that had been started long ago, reaching for the rain-dampened gold of her hair, but ere he could touch it the rain lessened in an instant and she stopped her wild spinning, the both of them staring up at a clearing sky, dirt and grime and blood washed clean from their bodies.

The air was frigid and their hair and clothes dried stiff as they continued through the evening towards Nan Tathren. Throughout the early hours of the night it steadily grew closer and, with that diminishing distance, his hope was increasingly augmented. But, even that hope had not prepared him for the awe that he would feel when, in the gathering dusk, they practically sprinted the last few miles in desperation for that solace of safety and at last stopped at the base of a myriad of enormous trees. Whereas Region had been a forest sparsely populated by holly trees and comprised of wide open glens and clearings, Nan-tathren was dense with a thick growth of massive ancient trees, giving the whole wood the air of an impenetrable forest, and yet these trees were beautiful as well. Their light brown bark appeared gray in the emerging starlight, they had a wealth of branches thicker around than he was. Some of the larger ones bore branches so heavy that they sagged to the ground, thick with verdant foliage, and the heady jasmine-like scent of camphor hung thick in the air. It was magnificent: a forest of incense bearing trees, ancient as the hills, a forest enchanted, a world set apart. 

“Will they allow us to pass?” Galadriel asked him, staring at the trees with a kind of awe, and he could see her thoughts written upon her face, that these were unlike the trees of Valinor, that they were as foreign and dark as he was, and that they had not the friendliness of the fair beeches of Doriath.

“They will not harm you, will not harm us,” he said, praying it would be true, “and yet they will bury beneath their roots all those who enter without their permission. Here,” he said softly, taking her hand in his and pressing it to the massive bole of one of the great trees. “Speak to them, let them know you.”

And he watched with joy in his heart as surprise flitted across her face, as her azure eyes widened in the twilight. “It is warm!” She exclaimed in wonder, “like…like skin beneath which lie veins and muscle, as though it breathes and has a pulse all to itself just as surely as we do.”

Celeborn reached out as well, pressing his palm against the tree and closing his eyes, hoping that the rumors he had heard were right. But then again, the Onodrim were a mysterious people, even if Treebeard was his friend, and he could not often predict their movements. This tree was not one of them, but he could feel in its bark and in the heartwood beneath the slow current of their conversation, the unmistakable sounds of Entish, pulsing through the forest and breathed a great sigh of relief.

“They’re here!” He exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement though he had not yet obtained their permission to enter. “They’re here, Galadriel.” And, taking her hand, he pressed his once more to the tree’s smooth bark, feeling it relax at his touch, and spoke to it in the slow soft language of the trees, entreating it to bear his message to the tree shepherds. They waited with baited breath for the slow reply of the trees and then, with an almighty creaking, the trees seemed to step aside, creating a path by which they might enter.

“Are we safe?” Galadriel asked him, still unsure, and he nodded, reaching out to take her hand in his. 

“They will guard us,” he told her, “and offer us sanctuary.” Stepping over gnarled roots that came nearly up to their knees, they made their way into the hidden wood, beneath boughs heavy with thick, glossy, green, leaves, though it was winter, and clouds of fireflies that flitted overhead, casting their golden pinpricks of light into the deep dark of the forest.

“Oh!” he heard Galadriel gasp in wonder at his side, for they had passed through the external border of camphor trees now and into the heart of the forest with its secluded grottos and massive willow trees, some of which were blooming with white flowers and others of which were thick with rich green leaves that cascaded down like a thousand elegant waterfalls. Thick, soft mosses of ash gray, lavender, and pale green covered the ground in pastel wonder. “Nan-Tathren, the vale of willows. Yes…it is aptly named indeed.” She said breathlessly as if she almost feared that her voice would disturb the beauty and peace of this place.

And Celeborn felt the same, as if his breath had been stolen from him, for he had never seen beauty such as this, not even in the forests of Doriath or in the enchanted halls of Menegroth itself. As they walked they passed through groves with still, crystal-clear ponds thickly populated with green lily pads and water lilies of shimmering white and gold. Around these ponds grew the most beautiful flowers: in some places they discovered vibrant reds and yellows, in other places, bold jewel tones of purple, teal, and blue, in still others there were delicate blossoms of silver and white that covered the ground like a thousand little stars. 

They stopped, removing their boots, and walked barefoot over the blanket of soft mosses and grasses, feeling the comforting warmth of the earth beneath their feet. Though it was winter out on the plains, it was as if it were spring here, the flowers all a bloom and the air warm and pleasant in this world set apart, imbued with the magic of the ents.

It was a true evening forest perfect in its twilight beauty. The moon in the sky shone like an unblemished iridescent pearl, its glimmering silvery beams filtered softly down through the thick forest canopy up above. The flowers seemed to awaken then, turning up towards the moon and glowing with a soft, golden, inner light, like a thousand tiny lanterns, each flickering with its own candle. The silvery bark of the willows sparkled like stardust and hundreds of fireflies congregated in the still air like a constellation, nay, a galaxy of stars. 

Whatever sadness he had felt, whatever desperation, seemed to have been soothed by the enchantment of the forest and now all that Celeborn could feel was a quiet joy and the feel of Galadriel’s hand firm and strong, fingers locked in his and in her wrist, against his own wrist, he felt the pulsing like a current that moved through him and filled his entire body with an aching hollowness of wanting.

“Here,” Galadriel said suddenly, turning to him, and he felt some small gasp of hope awaken within him as she took both of his hands in her own, turning smiling eyes towards his, “this is perfect. I can feel it.” She told him. “This is the place. Here let us make our home.” They had at last come to a stop in a secluded glade that bordered a small pond where the branches of the willows were so long that they trailed across the surface of the water. The edge of the pond was teeming with silvery-violet moonlilies, their fragrant scent rising into the air, and fireflies glittered as they flitted amongst the flowers like beads of light. The surface of the water was disturbed only by the leap of the occasional frog, and the musical chirp of crickets greeted their ears as the forest seemed to sing around them, unveiling its full beauty. 

Galadriel let go of his hand and walked towards the largest willow, whose bole could not even be seen through the cascade of leaves and white flowers that fell from its branches, parting these with her hand, and stepped beneath the tree. Celeborn followed, suddenly oddly conscious of each of his movements as he reached up and unbuckled his quiver and weapons from his back, laying them down at the base of the tree in the lush and verdant carpet of grass. Niphredil and Elanor grew there, tiny starlike flowers of silver and gold, and he smiled at the sight of them.

“Like us,” he said softly, pointing and Galadriel nodded, a true smile blossoming on her lips, pink as a rose in summer.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him, happiness in the depths of her clear blue eyes, “like us.” She unshouldered her pack and stripped off her weapons and leather armor, setting all of it gently upon the thick, soft moss that grew there. Her cloak she unclasped and set atop their meager belongings as he too shed his gear. 

He unclasped his cloak and lay it aside, relishing in the lightness of his body without the burdens of packs and weapons, as he watched her reach up to touch the delicate silver-white flowers that blossomed amongst the slender green willow leaves, watched as the soft flickering glow of the light of the fireflies that flitted amongst the branches lit her face, reflected off of the shimmering gold of her hair. 

The rain had washed clean their skin and their hair, but their clothes were still soiled and, with a tinge of pain, his eyes lingered on the still dark bruise at her throat, at the green and purple that had blossomed on her cheek. But never, never in his life had she been as beautiful to him as she was now, now that she was here by his side, now that they were no longer prince and princess, come of different peoples, bound by different laws, subject to duties and prejudices not of their own making or volition, but simply a man and a woman very much in love.

“Galadriel,” he whispered, feeling as if he had waited for this moment all of his life. She turned towards him and he saw the hope, thick and vibrant in her eyes, the way her breath caught in her throat. “Galadriel,” he said her name again, his voice filled with the urgency of wanting as he reached out, grasping her hips and drawing her towards him. And he did not ask permission before he said it, because he already knew her answer, and the words fell from his lips with the quiet of a whisper but the strength of a thunderstorm; “I marry you. I marry you, Galadriel. With Eru Ilúvatar as my witness I marry you.”

Her reply was immediate, given without pause, without hesitation, her words as full of conviction as his, their gazes locked together as she said, “I marry you, Celeborn. I marry you. With Eru Ilúvatar as my witness I marry you.”

And then, in a world in which there had always been so much time, there was suddenly not enough as he brought his lips to hers with bruising fervor and she opened her mouth to him, tasting of him as deeply as he tasted of her, fingers grappling for the feel of skin as he tugged the hem of her shirt free from her breeches while she did the same to him, unable to stop, it seemed, until he felt the warmth of her waist beneath his fingers.

Then the fervor passed and they came down into gentleness, his lips moving against hers gently, slowly, cradling her head in his hands and her hands clutched in his tunic, pulling him as close to her as she was able but her skin was burning to have him closer still, his skin against hers, his body heavy upon hers, his warmth deep within her. 

And he had touched her before of course, many a time, but this was the first that he had touched her with this clarity of intent, as her husband, and now a new wave of fervor was rising and he could think of nothing except that he needed her with a fierce wanting such as he had never known, needed to be within her, to be one with her at last, to feel the fibers of their fëar knit fully together and to know her fully as he would be fully known. 

He tried to steady his mind, to steady his hands so as not to be ungentle and, breathing hard, they broke apart. With gentle reverence he reached out to open the fastenings of her tunic, then the ties of her shirt as the garments slipped from her shoulders to the ground. He swallowed hard, his hands moving with wonder across her smooth skin, his heart delighting in the small gasp he elicited from her as he cupped her small firm breasts. He had seen her bare so many times before but each time seemed to him as a gift and this time was the most wonderful of them all.

“You too,” Galadriel murmured with breathless excitement, and he watched in awe as her fingers worked at the fastenings of his tunic and shirt, undoing them, pushing the clothing from him before she turned her gaze to his again. He saw all of Arda reflected there in the azure depths of her eyes for a hallowed instant before golden-lashed lids closed gently over them and he felt her lips, soft, plying at his.

Cradling her face in his hands once more he kissed her gently and felt her nimble fingers at his breeches now, undoing the buttons, pushing them over his hips. He reached for her, hands going to her waist, the strength with which he gripped her hips dimpling the soft flesh there, pulling her against him as he kissed her. Then he moved back once more to look at her, because he could not help but look at her, to watch the way that the light of the fireflies glowed upon her skin, making it appear gold, and he ran his fingers gently across the soft skin of her stomach, over the curves of her hips, almost unable to believe that she would give him so great a gift as herself. _My wife_ , the contemplated words seemed a miracle in his mind, but the vow was yet only half complete. Her eyes flickered towards his and she smiled, taking his chin in her fingers.

“After all these years I grow impatient,” she said with a little laugh before kissing him long, and slow, and deep, her desire as evident as his. At the feel of her lips he almost forgot what it was he was supposed to be doing but his body reminded him and, fumbling, he undid the buttons of her breeches, pushing them to the ground where she stepped out of them, their clothes now all discarded. He held her to him and kissed her, feeling her tremble against him with willingness, the length of her body tight against him, her breasts firm against his chest, until he thought he would go mad if they were not joined in that moment.

“I need you,” he gasped against her lips. “Galadriel I need you.”

Then there was the heady perfume of niphredil and elanor crushed and the softness of the moss beneath her golden head and the moon pale and silver on her closed eyes, and all his life he would remember the curve of her neck in the moonlight with her head pushed back into the niphredil and clover, and her lips that moved softly, silently, and the fluttering of her lashes on eyes tight closed against the night and against everything, against a world of blue midnight, purple duskiness from the starlight on closed eyes, all in a blindness of evening.

He reached down, concerned, for his body trembled with a raw sort of power that he could not entirely control. And then she opened her eyes to him, her gaze imploring. “ _Please_ , Celeborn,” she gasped. “I cannot wait any longer for you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, brushing his thumb against the softness of her cheek. 

“You won’t,” she said, reaching up, brushing her fingers through the starfall of silver hair that cascade over his shoulders and fell to her chest. “I love you.”

He held her gently in his arms then, eyes fixed softly upon hers in which he could see eternity hung upon all time always, forever turning, and eyes-open she brushed her lips against his as he pressed forward, felt the moment of resistance, and then, in the next instant, they were one.

Galadriel cried out, gasping, pushing her head back further into the flowers and his heart pounded for a moment in panic, afraid he had hurt her, but in the next moment she had wound her arms round his shoulders, pulling him as close as she could and closer still, her nails biting into his flesh in bittersweet pain. He was overwhelmed, pressed his head up under her chin as his head dropped to her chest from the sensation of it, like nothing he had ever felt before, as if he was dying a deathless death for a moment only, and if that was dying then he wanted to die again and again and again until he had supped full of death.

“I love you,” he whispered, gasping into the skin of her neck, his hands tangled in her hair as he pressed tender kisses to the livid purple of the bruise on her throat, to the green and yellow that marred her perfect cheek, wishing that by his love he might heal these wounds. And he felt her fingers gentle against the arrow wound, as if she were blessing it, her fingertips tracing the scars that marred his back and arms.

And then it was as the night burning to dawn against the horizon, the dusky purple of the moonlit hours of early morning growing and expanding about them until they were swallowed by it entirely and lay in the starlit basin of the world from the center of which a light whiter than white and glowing with the perfect wonderment of all eternity gone. Then time, absolutely still, enveloped them in unblemished morning. Slowly then, like sand drawn by the tide out into the crashing waves of the cerulean sea he could feel her soul seeping into his own until he hardly knew where she ended and he began. She opened her eyes, wide with wonder, and in them he saw the stars and the fullness of her fëa joined to his just as their bodies were also joined fully.

Then they were clutching each other tight, afraid but unafraid, unsure and yet certain, unready but eager, vulnerable and yet unspeakably assured. He was heavy on his elbows in the soft earth and she pushed up against him in the deep moving as he felt her emotions coursing through him as keenly as though they were his very own. And, indeed, they might have been for they flowed from the same vein of pure joy and unadulterated happiness mixed with the bittersweet summer that is the life that follows loss. The feeling of it nearly undid him but, gradually, in slow-breathing solace they came back down into the measured gentleness of the earth’s warm musky soil.

“Don’t stop, oh please don’t stop,” she gasped, eyes soft on his, and he realized that she had not spoken the words aloud, but that he had heard them in his own mind as she reached up to touch him, to cradle his face in her hands. And he wouldn’t stop. Already his body was shrieking from the pain of having stayed still too long and he grasped at her hips, settling between her thighs as he began to move and she rose to greet him, hands slipping over smooth skin, hearts beating in tandem. 

She gasped, wrapping her legs about him more tightly and he groaned at the closeness of it, of the closeness of her, the feeling of her skin against his, of their sweat mingling and their bodies intertwined, of the round fullness of her lips against his throat, of the soft, lithe, warmth of her body tight against his own, the heat of her that surrounded him. So this was what it was to love someone with your entire self, he thought, and he wanted to give her all of him but felt that it would never be enough, that all their lives, no matter how many times they did this, the wanting would never cease.

As he kissed her he saw not the memories of what had passed, but instead a vision expansive of the horizon stretched out before them in a plain of grass and a prism of starlight, mountains of indigo that reached up into the gleam of paradise where snow lay soft like purest down, rivers that swelled with azure tides where silver fishes swam, rain that fell soft and welcome upon green earth, tall trees that stretched unto the sky with glossy leaves of gleaming gold, and silver, and green, the song of summer and of warm fresh earth, the taste of winter frost as pure as mirrored glass, the sweetness of spring breezes in which the petals of errant plum blossoms danced and sang, the crisp musk of fall that sat heavy in the hollow of the world. He saw it in her mind, not as through a mirror dimly, not as a vision or a memory, but as his very self. 

The light pulled at him, trying to draw him into it but with fierce determination he held on, refusing to go just yet, not without her, not without Galadriel. She gasped, lips parted, skin flushed pink and eyes on the border of eternity it seemed as she met his gaze as the morning light of the sun crested the horizon, painting them in hues of pink, and gold, and palest blue. Whatever words he might have said were lost to the world as he drowned in awe of her; she seemed to be glowing, her whole body filled with a light that surrounded them both and then her body, lithe, and fresh, and perfect arched up into his own like the elegant curve of a bow loosing an arrow as her lips parted in a wordless cry.

He clasped her to him, losing himself in the almighty shuddering of his body, his vision going completely black for an instant in which he thought he might have died before all of a sudden the life came pouring back into him like a river as he watched the heavens and eternity flood like a river at tide in the sunlight of her eyes, passing to him and then back, forever turning, never any end to it time always unknowing to be borne once again and back until suddenly, scaldingly, the entire world stilled and they were once more in the eternity of that starlit basin of the world, grown still, and gentle, and one.

The sun continued her ascent slowly in the east, early morning light slipping over them and waking the forest to the sweet sound of birds, the bubbling of brooks, the delicate white butterflies that flitted here and there to land upon the vibrant sprays of wildflowers that opened to the sun’s first light. And they lay there in the clover, the silver niphredil and golden elanor like a galaxy of stars beneath their bodies as they held one another close, unable to stop the smiles that claimed their lips and set their faces aglow, lost in the depths of one another’s eyes.

“What are you thinking wife?” Celeborn said to her in his mind as he lay by her side, the cool morning air pleasant upon his bare skin, a grin upon his lips and a laugh in his eyes as he turned to her.

“Today, husband,” Galadriel said, her voice low and playful as she propped herself up on her elbow, blue eyes twinkling with happiness, golden hair falling across his chest as she leaned over him before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “the worlds is ours.”

*****

**Author’s note:** Thanks so much for reading! This story is so long and I feel honored beyond belief that so many of you have read and reviewed the entire thing! As you can guess this story has been a huge part of my life and I want to thank all of you for sharing it with me. You will never know how much you inspired me and I will always be indebted to you for your thoughtful critiques that have helped me to grow as a writer.

If you have not left a review yet but have been reading along I would ask that you please do so if you have a few spare moments. It can really help me so much just to hear one thing, character, or scene that you liked about the story or my writing as well as to hear things you think could have done better. As I look towards writing the sequel to this story these things are even more important.

I still need to clean up a few chapters before I mark this fic as complete. Also, this fic will have a short epilogue, Chapter 40, followed by me answering your questions about the story so if there are any lingering questions please send them to me soon! And once again, thank you so much for coming along on this journey with me.


	40. Denoument in Alqualondë

  
**Denoument in Alqualondë**  
In Cavern’s Shade: Epilogue

*****  
"Sometimes the strength of motherhood  
is greater than natural laws."

_\- Barbara Kingsolver_

*****

**Author’s note:** Thanks so much for reading guys! I can’t believe I am actually finishing this fic and I am SO excited to work on the sequel.

 **Next Fic:** There are going to be some new POV characters and you are going to see a lot more of the relationship between the Sindar, Green elves, and Avari as well as the arrival of the host from Valinor, which should be VERY interesting, as well as the introduction of some new main characters, including Cirdan, Gil-galad, and Amroth. Oropher will also play a much more prominent role, although as you may have guessed, I don’t actually like Oropher and Thranduil very much so they won’t be POV characters although they will play an important role in the story. Plus there will be a lot more Celebrimbor…whether for good or for ill. It probably will be about half the size of Cavern’s Shade. I’m planning on breaking it into 3 parts again. It will run from immediately after the sack of Doriath up until Celeborn and Galadriel move to Eregion. So…F.A. 506 – S.A. 700.

**Character profile:** Bainwen and Paniel

A big issue I faced in the planning stages of this story was that almost all of the main canon characters in this story were nobility. I also really wanted to bring in more about the common people of Doriath since I felt that if we only focused on the nobility it wouldn’t provide us a well-rounded idea of the society, culture, and kingdom as a whole.

Beleg and Mablung aren’t nobility and they’re obviously in the fic (more on them in the questions at the end) but they interact almost exclusively with nobility so they couldn’t really provide as much of the commoner perspective as I wanted. So I created some OCs. I’ve talked before about how nervous it makes me to create OCs and I was nervous with these two as well, but it is pretty hard to write a Silmarillion fic without OCs.

To be honest, a lot of Part II doesn’t sit well with me and I wish I had done some things there differently, but I really did want to bring in more of the interaction with the common people and I especially wanted Galadriel to interact with them. I think she had been living in the upper echelons of Doriathrin society and she never really saw what common Sindarin elves thought of her or how she was perceived. She also never had really stopped to contemplate their life experiences before and in her mind they almost didn’t exist in a way. But when she does meet Bainwen and Paniel she kind of gets a different perspective that she never had before.

Another thing about this story is that I really wanted to portray elves as imperfect characters. I think too often in fics they get portrayed almost as perfect godlike beings but when we read the Silmarillion we can see that this is obviously not true and elves are capable of and do terrible things. So I wanted to portray that side of them, that elves are just as complex, layered, variable, and gray as any other character. With the common people I really saw a chance to play that up so I incorporated that idea into Bainwen and Paniel’s characters.

I wanted Bainwen to be just a complete but well-meaning ditz. She’s honestly not that bright but I wanted to show that that doesn’t matter because she has a lot of other really valuable and important qualities. She was genuinely a really kind person and extremely loyal. She does things because they are the right thing to do and she doesn’t really think further than that. But she also really wants to kind of make her way in the world and she has a very hardworking spirit. She is really easily tricked by deceptions and lies. She tends to take everything at face value and to believe everything anybody tells her. In the end, she was willing to defend and help Galadriel even at the expense of her own life.

I also really wanted there to be a character that would challenge Galadriel and call her out on her crap. Celeborn does this to an extent but he also has a romantic relationship with Galadriel, which sometimes prevents him from being completely honest with her. Paniel has no such compunctions. She tells Galadriel exactly what she thinks of her always. I think she actually does consider Galadriel to be a friend but there are a lot of times where she genuinely does not like Galadriel. Often, she has very good reasons for this. 

I think that fanfic readers/authors in general often tend to believe Galadriel’s perspective completely and trust her in everything but I wanted there to be a character that points out that Galadriel does actually have some serious issues and she isn’t perfect. You shouldn’t side with Galadriel all the time.

I also really wanted to have a character who was one of Thingol’s spies since the use of spies is one of the parallels that Tolkien draws between Thingol and Celeborn in Fellowship of the Ring. Paniel was a character that I wanted to have a really hard edge to her so I used her in this role. I also wanted an elf who had led a really rough life to kind of show that elves aren’t perfect and they still suffer and go through hard things that happen to real life people. But don’t start thinking that Paniel is secretly all rainbows and butterflies inside. She really can be quite nasty sometimes. I want her to be a complex character even though she really only acts as a supporting character. I also really wanted to show that you can respect someone very much but still not be a big fan of their personality, which is kind of the relationship that she and Galadriel have.

*****

“Now is the hour of the swan! Her Highness the princess arrives!” The herald’s voice rose up clear and musical and the servants threw themselves to the ground, heads pressed to the floor. At the flick of a hand white as ice that seemed nearly encased in silver for all of the glimmering rings and ornaments that adorned it, the groveling servants arose and quit the room while the princess strode from one end of the hall to the other, where a massive throne of diamond stood glittering like ice that seemed as though it had been cut from a glacier.

The floor of that great hall was of white marble, veined with silver and yet there were dark patches of rust-colored red here and there, not a natural aspect of the stone, but stains that were a remembrance of the blood that had once pooled there. There had been those in the court that were disturbed by this, that had sent pleading letters to the princess begging her have the marks buffed out, to have the floor redone even, but she had refused with wrath. 

“Shall I erase the sin for comfort’s sake?” She had cried, flinging her diamond glittering hand out, her skin so pale it might have been glass. The blue of her veins showing through made her look as though she were a crystal veined in color, as she challenged each and every one of the nobles. “Nay!” She had laughed with scorn, strutting about the throne as if she were a man, though she wore the garb of a woman. “When the princes of the Noldor come groveling before my throne like the dogs that they are then they will remember how my brothers and my mother died before this throne on the ends of their swords, begging for mercy. They will be forced to recall their crimes. Long did they call us Nelyar and late-comers! No more! Now Alqualondë reigns supreme!” It had been many long centuries ago but her anger had not lessened.

Now she strode, heels of diamond as hard as her heart clicking across that bloodstained floor. The thick and heavily beaded silver hem of her otherwise airy dress whipped about her ankles as she walked. She wore a gown of blue paler than the sky, a gown of silk so delicate that her body was clearly visible through the fabric: her small but firm breasts, her hips and waist about which girdles of hammered silver and pearls were fastened, her back was completely bare. And yet, the near nakedness of her did not incite desire so much as it inspired fear, for there is nothing so intimidating to so many as a woman who is so unafraid.

Her eyes – her eyes were the most ferocious thing about her, violent as the sea in a storm, the only glimpse of color in an otherwise colorless face and they were made all the more fearsome by the way that they were adorned, eyes and brows both painted in lines of obsidian kohl that extended all the way to the edge of her face in the traditional Telerin style. But though her brows were black, her hair was of pale silver, nearly white, bright as a star, glimmering like the ocean beneath the moon. And this was gathered tight atop her head, bound there with silver ornaments that jingled as she walked, but the hair hung down long and straight, falling nearly to the floor. Her face was a marvel, beautiful and perfect as freshly fallen snow, with high and refined features that made her look as though she herself had been carved of marble by the most skilled of sculptors. Her beauty was incomparable, her wrath inescapable, her thirst for vengeance…unquenchable. 

She had come now to the throne and she mounted it with ease, as if she had been born to it, and indeed she had. The hall fell silent, the servants who had accompanied her bearing massive fans of peacock and swan feathers fell back, bowing low, and Eärwen of Alqualondë raised her bare, pure white, silver-bangled arm, extending her hand to the door at the far end of the hall.

“Does he come groveling then?” she said with a scornful laugh, her voice deeper than a woman’s wont. “Very well then. Show him in.”

He entered, posture suitably deferential, walking in silence the length of the hall, the gauntlet of unforgiving eyes, taking a knee at last before the throne, not even daring to raise his eyes to the woman who was now his wife only in name.

“Stand,” she said, a single, cold syllable, and he did as he was bid, his eyes meeting hers at last, a quiet man, but not one who was unbrave. “What business brings you here to these halls where you are so unwelcome?”

“Our children,” he said simply, crossing his hands behind his back. Arafinwë was a simple man, quiet, unassuming, even as a king. “A messenger has arrived bearing news from Middle Earth. Our sons are dead, and Orodreth too. No one knows where Artanis is or if she even lives, but she has not been seen in over 30 years.” He said the words calmly because he had practiced them so many times, standing before a mirror, knowing he could not, must not break when he spoke them to her. Even if Eärwen loved him no more he would not have willingly caused her harm.

He watched the subtle signs of emotion in a body that otherwise bore no witness to feeling, the way her grip on the throne tightened, making the bones of her hands stand out in a skeletal way, the skin stretched tight over her knuckles. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on his, intent now, none of the earlier scorn remained there.

“I am leaving in a week’s time,” he said, “for Middle Earth, with a great host from Valinor to conquer Morgoth once and for all and I will find Nerwen…bring her home to you…”

“Leave.” She said, her voice low and angry, and the hall fell silent. Her eyes darted up to his, unafraid, full of fury.

“Leave!” She shouted, springing to her feet. And then, all of a sudden she was shrieking, standing from her throne, commanding the guards with fury unmatched. “LEAVE! Cast him out! Leave!”

Arafinwë was already on his feet, his heart in pieces on the bloodstained floor, backing away as quickly as he could. The Telerin ceremonial guards were only too eager to assist, pushing him roughly from the hall, and the last thing he saw before the silver doors closed in his face was the heartbreak in Eärwen’s eyes.

The anger bled out of her slowly, leaving her drained and lifeless, the same way that her mother and brothers had bled out their lives in this very room, upon this very floor. The throne room was empty now, per her command, and she sat no longer as a princess, high and unapproachable, but simply as a woman now, on the stairs at the base of the throne, elbow propped up on her knee and chin in her palm, the late afternoon sun casting golden rays of dying light into long shadows through which specks of dust filtered and glimmered like gold.

She let her hand fall to her side, the silver bangles clattering to collect about her wrist, the jingle of them echoing throughout the empty hall. She remembered how this hall had once been filled with laughter and merriment and music, how it was here that she had first caught Arafinwë’s eye from across the room. 

She reached out into the golden glimmering dust, watching the way that it passed through her fingers, slipping away, as everything else had. The way it glittered reminded her of Nerwen’s hair. Nerwen…she was still alive perhaps…perhaps there was some chance… Her heart recoiled at the thought. Why should she care for Nerwen when Nerwen had marched off to Middle Earth without a second glance behind her, when Nerwen had scoffed at her warning, filled with the pride of her father’s people, when Nerwen had refused to turn back even after the proclamation of doom?

At least Arafinwë had returned, she thought, but no sooner had she thought it than her heart condemned him. Returned: too late. What good did it do for him to repent _after_ he had left, _after_ her people had been slain, _after_ their children had gone? There was no fight to him, even today he had not protested when she had thrown him out. 

“You will not find fire in him,” her father had cautioned her on her wedding day.

“It isn’t fire that I want,” she had replied. Then what did she want now? She stood in silent contemplation for a while, watching the sun set on the western side of the harbor, the banners streaming from the topmasts of the ships like ribbons of gold in the dying light as the sailors climbed the masts, furling the sails, and at last the sun sank over the horizon.

*****

“Now is the hour of the moon! The high princess approaches!” The cry of the Telerin herald was what jolted Arafinwë from his restless slumber and he sat up in his dark room, in a bed he had once upon a time shared with his wife. Now his sole companionship was the shafts of pearly moonlight that filtered through the arabesque window grates. _The high princess...Eärwen?_ She had not been in Tirion since the kinslaying and he could not fathom why she had come so suddenly, especially in the middle of the night.

There appeared to be some sort of commotion outside of the door and he rose, padding to the door in his nightshirt. “Your wife demands entrance, your majesty,” the guard murmured in response to the king opening the door but Arafinwë hardly heard the man, for his gaze was fixed upon Eärwen, still in the same clothes that she had been wearing this morning, a fearsome look upon her face that did not quite rhyme with the conflict that her eyes seemed to evidence. She was surrounded by Telerin ceremonial guards who wore silver mail that glimmered in the moonlight and a train of handmaidens dressed in gauzy white gowns, sapphires burning like blue flames at their throats, pearls in their hair.

“Please come in,” he said softly with a subtle nod and the guards stood down as his wife passed within. He shut the doors behind her and turned to find that she had already traversed the expansive room and thrown open the ornate shutters, the moonlight streaming in now in great beams of silver light. 

He could not help but think how beautiful she was caught up in that moonglow, like a star at eventide, a ship standing strong against the current, never to be beaten back. “Eärwen…” he whispered, approaching her slowly, stopping an arm’s length away from her. He could not think of what he ought to say next, all his apologies, his regret, his explanations had meant nothing to her. The only thing he wished was to relieve her pain and yet he had no idea how he could go about doing so, if it was even possible. 

She spoke into the silence. “Our children are dead,” her voice sounded softer, frailer, more devoid of life than it had earlier today, when she had been a raging storm crowning a throne of ice. He marveled at her heart that in a single day she could feel both such ferocious anger and such crippling pain and he stood in awe of the strength of her soul, just as he had so long ago felt such fierce admiration for the silver-haired girl who had piloted her ship in races against the most weathered of mariners: she was indomitable.

She turned, her eyes meeting his, and he knew exactly what to say, what lay in his own heart, “there is still hope,” he murmured. “For Nerwen, there is hope.” He wasn’t sure what had happened or why but, in the next instant, her mouth was on his like the kiss of salt-spray on the shore and then they were tumbling into his bed, and she was atop him in the moonlight, all silver and alabaster as she threw back her head and cried out her pleasure to the stars. And he, he was left gasping for air like a man drowned, trembling as if from the sheer force of a wave crashing upon him. 

Later he held her in his arms, kissed her softly, their clothes discarded and forgotten and she said, great sadness in her eyes, “our daughter Arafinwë, bring her home, bring Nerwen home.”

“I will,” he whispered into her silver hair and he knew that she was like the moon, that with the rising of the sun she would disappear from his bed as if this night had been nothing more than a dream, but he wanted this dream to last forever, wanted things to be the way they had been before the kinslaying, back when the halls of their home had echoed with the laughter of their children, back when their marriage had been a marriage. Now they loved each other, but they were not in love. 

The first rays of dawn’s light broke his heart like a wave shattering on the shore as Eärwen slipped from his arms, bending to retrieve her gown and dressing slowly with not even a glance towards him. And he could not help but ask the question that gnawed like a wolf at his heart. “Why?” He said, sitting up. “Why after all this time did you come to me?”

Her azure eyes flickered towards him for a moment before she began dressing again. “There is war coming,” she said stiffly, “a great war. There were witnesses at your door: my guards, your guards, my handmaidens. They all saw me attend to your chamber.”

A show of solidarity then, a political move, a display meant to indicate that the Teleri would not oppose the host meant to leave these shores and travel to Middle Earth to do battle. But still…the reason was a façade, he knew it, for she needn’t have carried through if she didn’t still love him, she needed only to be seen entering his rooms.

“Stay, Eärwen.” He whispered, rising from the bed and taking her hands in his. She looked up momentarily and he saw her answer in the stiff set of her jaw before she looked back down, sliding her myriad silver bangles back onto her wrists, but still he said it. “Stay with me here.” His words hung in silence for a moment before she replied, shaking her head.

“In this house?” She said. “This house where every day I would pass by the rooms of my dead and departed children? Do not ask such a thing of me Arafinwë; you are a kinder man than that.”

“Then let me come with you to Alqualondë,” be pleaded in a soft whisper. 

“Stop,” Eärwen murmured, raising firm eyes to his, pressing her fingertips against his lips. “You are the king of the Noldor. Your place is here and mine is with my people, with my father who still grieves so deeply the loss of my mother, my brothers.”

Arafinwë nodded, accepting what must be; it was useless, in any case, to counter Eärwen’s will. She hadn’t said it directly, but they had been wed long enough that he understood what her words really meant: she still could not forgive completely, not yet. But how he missed her…

She ran her fingers through her silver hair before tossing it over her shoulder, standing straight, and tall, and proud. He could not help but recall Artanis in those moments and pain lanced through his heart at the thought of his daughter, missing in a foreign land. His wife turned to leave and then stopped, pausing, before turning back for a brief moment, reaching out, her fingertips brushing against his, and he felt the warmth of her as he had so long ago. She swallowed hard, pondering her words for a moment, the deep blue of her ocean eyes meeting his. 

“The Teleri will not fight,” she said, “but our ships are at your service to ferry you across the sea.” In those words was his answer, the answer to why she had come, to whether or not there was still love in her heart for him And then she was gone and Arafinwë was left as he had been so many years ago, completely in awe of her. 

 

The End

*****

**Footnotes:** OK! Here are the answers to all your questions!

**I'm really curious about your Mablung and Beleg, we see them a bit in your story, but do you have any deep feelings or characterizations for them?**

I really wanted to write more of them but I had to cut out a lot of stuff just for the sake of time and brevity. I really like Mablung and Beleg. I tend to prefer Mablung over Beleg. Basically I wanted Celeborn to have some bros and Mablung and Beleg seemed like a good choice to me. 

As I mentioned in the characterization note at the start of this story, it was important to me to portray the life and perspectives of elves who are not royalty. I also wanted to show characters who are in the military since Celeborn is also part of that. Beleg and Mablung gave me this opportunity. 

I wanted to portray Beleg as kind of a quiet guy and I always kind of thought maybe there was something going on with him and Nellas but I always kind of figured Nellas had a thing for Turin and it all just ended unhappily. So I wanted to bring that in because I didn’t want everyone’s love story to end in happiness or marriage. I also wanted to make sure that Celeborn wasn’t “to good to be true” so I wanted to have some guys who could occasionally upstage him. So we know Celeborn is a great warrior but Beleg and Mablung are better. 

I think Celeborn and Beleg are really different. Beleg is pretty laid back and quiet while Celeborn is pretty intense and has a habit of opening his mouth at inopportune times. But Beleg is also prone to making poor decisions and he is really stubborn so he sticks with those decisions even when he can see they won’t end well. I think he also has a really misplaced sense of loyalty and feels like he owes people things. He sees things through to the end even when they won’t end well for him. To Celeborn that just doesn’t make sense. Celeborn is a more of “if it doesn’t work then don’t do it,” kind of guy and he can’t understand why Beleg just doesn’t walk away from the things that are causing him problems. This is at the root of the final argument they have. As sad as I think Celeborn is that Beleg died, I think he really does see it as something Beleg brought on himself and I think he is resentful of the fact that Beleg chose his personal issues over Doriath. 

Mablung is kind of the tough guy and I think he feels a deep sense of responsibility and duty to Doriath so I really wanted to bring that out to play in the fic. I think that he and Celeborn really have that in common. I kind of headcanon that they used to do a lot of womanizing back in the day when they were younger but I think that Mablung has kind of a softer more romantic heart. Celeborn can be more callous and rude about things. But overall I think that Mablung is a really virtuous sort of character and he really cares very deeply about his friends and the people he loves.

I always planned for the two of them to have this really painful scene at Mablung’s death where Celeborn ends up having to kill him to prevent his suffering and that the first non-orc elf Celeborn ever has to kill isn’t a Feanorion, but is actually a Sinda and one of his best friends…because I like pain. I think it is even harder for Celeborn because he recognizes the same sense of duty in Mablung and, in a world where it suddenly seems like everybody he cares about has betrayed him, especially Thingol, he ends up having to kill the one person who he knows is loyal beyond a doubt. 

 

**Could you elaborate on your perspective/interpretation on the curse/doom of Mandos? (I never really understood its meaning myself)**

I basically interpret it as that everything they do or start will come to ruin. So basically they will work really hard to build and create things but everything they do will get destroyed. And, that it will be their own paranoia and infighting because of the kinslayings and rivalry among the Noldorin princes that would lead to their destruction. Also, I interpret it as meaning that they will never be allowed to return to Valinor. So that is one reason that Galadriel is so terrified of losing Celeborn or of dying herself. She knows that he would be reborn in Valinor but she would never be allowed there. At best she would be allowed to dwell on Tol Eressëa but they would probably never be able to be together again. 

How do you actually feel about the Valar? (considering the sindar's view that they do not care for them)  
I’m really not a big fan of the Valar. To be perfectly honest I think they kind of act like dicks. Leaving the Sindar behind was kind of a shitty thing to do. I don’t know why they couldn’t have waited for them to find Thingol and then let them come to Valinor. I don’t like how the elves of Aman are often considered superior to the elves of Middle Earth because first of all that’s kind of racist and also the elves of Middle Earth didn’t really have much of a choice. That’s not their fault. But most of all I don’t really like the Valar because I think it is pretty shitty of them to just leave the elves of Middle Earth to suffer and get killed. It seems like they didn’t really care what Morgoth was doing to the Sindar, Green Elves, and Avari and they didn’t do anything to help. I think that canonically the Sindar espouse that view themselves since the do call themselves ‘the forsaken’. I think I really put this into Thingol’s character arc a lot, how he can’t understand why the Valar left them behind. I think he had this really idealistic view of the Valar and that was crushed when they abandoned the Sindar. I like Yavanna pretty well though.

**What are your top 3 characters? (just because; lets do favorite and least favorite)**  
Favs! Celeborn, Galadriel, Thingol (Thingol is a fav but I have a love/hate relationship w him)  
Least favs: Fëanor, all 7 of his sons collectively, Saeros

**And just for the hell of it, whose your least favorite character and why?**  
Feanor because he is a racist, selfish asshole who can’t get over his mommy issues and also commits mass murder that is completely unjustifiable. Also, he doomed all of his sons and even his own wife ended up leaving him because she couldn’t stand him. Plus he is a hypocrite. He wouldn’t give his Silmarils to Yavanna to reconstruct the two trees because they were his most precious possession but THEN when the Teleri wouldn’t give him their ships because they were their most precious possessions he just murdered them.

**How did you get in touch with Tolkien?**

**And, I was also curious about your history with Tolkien, where you discovered him, and what brought you to the events of writing this story.**

**What made you decide to write your series? (maybe also explain the planning and work that goes into such a huge project)**

I’ll answer these three together. I actually saw the LOTR movies first when I was 14, which is when FOTR came out. After I saw the first movie I really wanted to read the books so I did and I got really into them, eventually reading everything, including Tolkien’s letters, Unfinished Tales, HOME, etc. I just really like high fantasy in general and especially the world that Tolkien created. I think there is so much to work with for fanfic because Tolkien himself was so inconsistent, which makes for a lot of different possibilities. I think one of the reasons I really enjoy writing fanfic is because I like to fill in the gaps and answer questions that Tolkien left unanswered.

I actually started writing this story 14 years ago pretty soon after I saw the first movie. I had this clear idea in my head of what I wanted to achieve, which was basically to chronicle the events of Celeborn and Galadriel’s lives and to fill in all the missing information about them. I actually even published 8 chapters of this fic back then but I think it is so different as to be unrecognizable. It still exists on FF.net and I desperately want to take it down because it is so bad, but I can’t remember the password for the account. However; after I wrote the 8th chapter I think I realized that I wasn’t capable of writing the story that I wanted to write. I just didn’t have the life experience, romantic experience, or writing skill to be able to pull of what I wanted to pull off. I knew I wasn’t accomplishing what I wanted to and I didn’t know how to make that happen. So I stopped writing the story, although I still read other people’s fics about the characters and I never really forgot about it. 

Over the 13 years that I didn’t work on it I would periodically go back and work on certain parts. There was a time about 6-7 years ago when I did begin working on it seriously again. I actually wrote up to Chapter 12 at this time, though these were much more bare bones chapters than what I eventually published, and a lot of stuff that is present in the story now was not present then. Chapters 1-4 are actually from this time and largely remained unchanged, which is part of why they have a different style and tone and a big reason that I want to revise them. 

But, I ran into some of the same issues. One big thing was that I had a lot of toxic people in my life at that time and that came out in some of the characters, especially in Celeborn and Thingol. They ended up coming off as pretty abusive and I wasn’t happy with that. I thought that they diverged too much from the book characters and I wanted to try to present them as canonically as possible. Also, the same old issue of not really knowing how to create a healthy and believable romantic relationship became a big problem. Eventually I realized again that I still wasn’t at a point where I was capable of writing this story and I stopped. Though, again, it was always in the back of my mind and I would periodically go back and read it again. 

The first version was also told completely from Galadriel’s point of view, which really didn’t work. I think doing that made Galadriel too believable and I wanted to show her negative side too. So eventually I ended up adding Celeborn’s point of view as well and I am really glad I did. I think he made the story what it is. I really wanted to show the Sindarin view of things and to really paint a culture for Doriath and the Sindar. Obviously that wouldn’t have been possible without…an actual Sinda. 

Finally I was living in Japan and, having been there for 3 years, I felt that my English was getting pretty bad. I needed something to help me keep up my writing skill, especially as I was starting to apply to grad schools. So I pulled out Cavern’s Shade and started working on it again a little bit before I moved back to the US. I had also recently been through a lot of bad things in my life and was struggling with some mental health issues so I started to see a therapist and she recommended writing as a way to help me deal with my trauma. 

This time the story just flowed out of me like I was meant to write it and I think I had finally come to that point in my life where I felt prepared for it and where I had the experience and ability to write what I wanted to write. I think that is the really hard part about writing. If you want to write a story like this, something this big and emotional, you HAVE to pour your real self into it. All of my life experiences, my pain, my insecurities, my trauma, the darkest days of my life are all here in the fic and so are the best experiences of my life. If you want to make that emotion real to the reader you HAVE to put your real emotions in there. There is no choice. That is a huge risk and a very frightening thing to do.

Finally, about 7 months after I had started working on the fic again I started to think about publishing it for a Silmarillion Appreciation Week event but I was really on the fence about it. So I talked to my best friend and she encouraged me to publish so I did. 

I never thought anyone would read this fic much less ever leave a review. Celeborn/Galadriel really isn’t a very popular pairing and I didn’t publish until a decade after ROTK had been released so I thought I had missed my window of opportunity. So I didn’t put any effort into the title and I didn’t edit the first four chapters, I just posted them. But I ended up getting reviews and there were people who were interested so I kept writing and kept uploading and well…here we are! 

I can honestly say this fic would never have been finished without you guys. You guys have been really amazing and, when I look at the first chapter compared to the last, I can really see how I have grown as a writer over the course of this past year. That is all thanks to you guys for leaving me so many helpful reviews and helping to keep me on track and encourage me to keep going. 

The planning of this story was pretty intense. When I finally decided I was going to actually write and publish this thing I saw down and drew up a MASSIVE spreadsheet showing each chapter and the main events that were to take place in that chapter. I also added a tab with a timeline of the first age so that I could reference that and make sure the story stuck to the actual timeline. 

Of course the story changed a lot as I wrote and I ended up adding stuff I didn’t plan on. It also got a lot bigger than I intended. There were originally only going to be 30 chapters. But, the spreadsheet was immensely helpful because it is so hard to keep track of Tolkien’s timeline. Also, writing a story this big, it is really easy to lose track of your own timeline. Sometimes in your reviews you guys remind me of things I completely forgot about. I also sometimes go back and read certain chapters and find things that I completely forgot happened. If you are planning on writing a really long story like this I would definitely recommend that you spend a lot of time charting out your plot and prep work like character studies (i.e. short fics to help you get a grip on a certain character). This doesn’t mean you have to follow your map exactly, but it can be really helpful to have a framework to work from so that your story stays consistent and stays on course. 

I have about 600 pages of unpublished writing that is just stuff I cut out of chapters during the edit, including entire scenes, and character studies I did as prep work. Regarding character studies, one of the things I see A LOT in fanfic that I really wanted to avoid was the feminization of the male characters. I think a lot of fanfic authors are women so we tend to present perspectives and thoughts that women have or in the way that women think. 

For an opposite example, if you read George R.R. Martin’s books his women actually tend to have a lot of male perspective. He often talks about them thinking about the way that their breasts move beneath their clothing, etc. Well, as women we never think of stuff like that so it seems strange. Only guys think about the way women’s breasts move beneath their clothing…

So I wanted to make sure I avoided that kind of thing with my male characters, especially because there were certain characters, like Thingol, Celeborn, and Mablung, that I wanted to come off as VERY masculine because I think Tolkien portrays especially Thingol and Celeborn as very masculine characters in his books in the way that they react to things and the choices that they make. So I ended up talking to a lot of men just about the way they think and how they think about things, their thought process etc. and then I played with those ideas in character studies where I would just try to examine one part of a character’s personality. I think that kind of prep work is very important for developing consistent, realistic characterization. Basically, if you are going to try to write a huge fic, prep work and research are reeeeeally critical.

**Someone asked me about what I imagine the characters as looking like so here are just a few ideas I have:**

Galadriel: LOTR movies Cate Blanchett  
Celeborn: younger Marton Csokas, esp. from Asylum

Thingol: George Clooney  
Melian: Beyonce or Lupita Nyong’o  
Lúthien: Deepika Padukone  
Beren: Ben Barnes

Galathil: Wilson Bethel but with dark hair  
Inwen: Adelaide Kane

Paniel: Amanda Seyfried  
Bainwen: Lourde

Finrod: A Knight’s Tale era Heath Ledger  
Angrod: Josh Hutcherson  
Aegnor: Chris Hemsworth

 

Dairon: Robert Pattinson  
Saeros: James Franco

Mablung: Jason Momoa  
Beleg: Jake Gyllenhaal  
Nellas: Shakira with her dark curly hair

Oropher: basically almost exactly like Thranduil in the hobbit movies except maybe with a thinner face  
Venessiel: Natalie Dormer

 

If you guys have any more questions, if you want to know more about any characters, or if I accidentally forgot anybody’s question please feel free to PM me! I love talking about Tolkien, writing, and this fic so I would be more than happy to talk. You guys are never bothering me.


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